


Your Smile Is a Thin Disguise

by Abagail_Snow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:08:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abagail_Snow/pseuds/Abagail_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen only plans on making a simple trade with District Twelve's young victor, but an unexpected blizzard leads to more than she'd bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The sun is dipping lower in the sky, and her game bag hasn't grown any lighter. 

Today wasn't a good day for trading.

Katniss never thought she'd worry about having too much meat, but trains from the Capitol are coming in with less goods than usual, and the people of Twelve don't have much to spare for the luxury.

Their ice chest back home is already over flowing with rabbit and squirrel meat, and packing the excess in the snow outside their house is only attracting predators.  Katniss had never seen a coyote on the other side of the fence before, but she had to chase one off with rocks when it cornered their goat, Lady in the backyard.

She's spent the last week accepting IOUs down at the Hob -- a generosity that does her no good.  Maybe in the long run.  But in District Twelve you never think much farther than tomorrow.

The last stop on her route is to the baker's.  He almost always has bread to trade, even if it's day old scraps (or even a few days old, she isn't picky.)

She climbs the back steps and taps on the door, certain she doesn't rouse his unruly wife.  His face is already apologetic when he appears on the other side of the threshold, and already, she feels her stomach begin to sink.

"I'm so sorry Katniss, I have nothing today," he says.  "Nothing worth one of your squirrels, at least."

She considers the stale heel for a moment.  The quality of the baker's bread has diminished greatly in the past few weeks.  Ever since the shipments of grain and flour began to fall short.  The baker has been improvising to make up for the shortcomings, Katniss has seen the experiments lined across the steel counter top, even tasted a few, but none are as good as the real thing.

She lets out a resigned sigh.  "Maybe tomorrow," she says, her game bag still weighing down her shoulder.

She's halfway down the steps when the door swings open again.

"Wait!" the baker calls out, and she stills briefly.  "Why don't you go to my son, Peeta?  He's back from the Capitol today."

Peeta.

Her eyes widen at the mention of his name alone.  The rest of Panem knows Peeta Mellark as the 74th victor of The Hunger Games.  One of two living victors in District 12.

But Katniss will always remember him as the kind boy who saved her when she was close to dying.  Now he's a world renowned killer.

"We don't get out there very often.  I'm sure he wouldn't mind a visitor."  Katniss hesitates to respond.  "The Capitol stocks him with far more than he needs, and he always did love your squirrels, maybe he'd be willing to make a trade for a taste of home."

It seems odd to Katniss that Peeta's family doesn't go to see him, but she doesn't question it.  Nobody's seen Peeta since he won his Games.  Not really.  They tote him out for the reaping ceremony every year and he occasionally pops up on Capitol television programs, which Katniss only catches if it's required viewing.  Other than that he chooses to live in seclusion.

That's not how Peeta Mellark used to be.  He was at the center of every crowd.  A friend to everyone.  That's how he won the Games.  He tricked the other tributes into trusting him.  He didn't have many kills of his own, he let them pick the others off one by one until he was the only one left, but blood has a habit of staining hands the same way.  It doesn't matter how many victims have bled on them.  It all looks the same in the end.

That's all District 12 sees now when they look at Peeta Mellark.  A ruthless murderer.  His charm is like poison.  His grin a death sentence.  When Katniss closes her eyes, she holds on desperately to the image of the boy with the bread.  Kind and generous.  He understands survival better than anyone.  He must know it comes with a cost.

She's reluctant to trade with the victor though.  Not because he's dangerous -- she's never thought of him that way at all -- but because she owes him a debt that a bag of squirrels could never repay.

She goes to the Peacekeepers instead.  Not the low level officers who patrol the Hob like Darius -- he has little more than she does.  She goes to Cray instead, the head Peacekeeper.

There's already a line formed outside his door.  Woman her age dressed in provocative rags and red painted lips.  Nobody is here to trade game, Katniss realizes quickly.  She's heard talk of girls from the Seam selling their bodies for a few gold coins, but she's never actually witnessed it.  She can't judge them for the measures they take -- her poaching is no more legal than their prostitution.  Katniss may have even considered it herself if she hadn't found other means.  She'd take twenty lashes over a baby in her belly any day of the week.

Night is close to falling when he opens his door.  He paces slowly, inspecting his pickings like he's choosing a prized hog.  He pauses in front of Katniss and jingles some silver coins in his hand.  "Whad'ya got for me, honey?" he says with a slurred snarl.

His sharp breath makes Katniss recoil slightly, but she stands firm.  She lifts her game bag wordlessly and he laughs in her face.  When he hooks his finger in the collar of her wool sweater to sneak a peek, she bats his hand away sharply.  

His laugh is as cold as the bitter air when he shoves her roughly, sending her skidding across the ice.  She lands on the ground on her hands and knees, the rocky pavement cutting into her palms like glass.  Then he spits at her, daring for her to try and stand.

He chooses his company for the night and slams the door behind him.

Katniss picks herself up and shoulders her game bag while the other girls scatter to the homes of the other high ranking Capitol officials.  This is the side of town where all the wealthier members of town live, including the victors of the Hunger Games.

It's a long journey's back to the Seam, and although it's begun to snow, she'd rather not have to make the trip back to these parts in the morning.  If she's going to visit Peeta, she'll have to swallow her pride now.  

She pauses in front of the iron gate to Victor's Village, tracing her fingers along the intricately welded seal.  The gate is latched, but she learns it isn't locked when she tests the handle and it gives easily.

There are a dozen houses in the village -- most of them vacant, only two have smoke bellowing from the chimney, and Katniss doesn't have to think too hard to figure out which home belongs to whom.

The house with broken windows and empty bottles spilling into the yard must be Haymitch Abernathy's.  He won years ago, long before Katniss was born -- when her mother was of reaping age in fact.  Haymitch is sort of a joke around District 12 (and the rest of Panem too) because he seems to be drunk all the time.  Every reaping he manages to make a big show of himself by falling off the stage or knocking Effie Trinket's wig askew. 

When she was a kid, Katniss found his antics to be hilarious, like all the other Capitol characters she would see on TV, but as she grows older, she realizes how depressing his life must be.  Every year he's paraded around Panem for the Capitol's entertainment, and every year he has to "mentor" two hopeless tributes from District 12 who are basically guaranteed to be slaughtered.  It's a lot of dead children to have on one's conscious. 

The only one Haymitch has managed to save in 25 years is Peeta Mellark and that almost seemed to be a fluke.  If Peeta hadn't been labeled the second coming of Finnick Odair, he probably wouldn't have seen the other side of the arena.

Peeta's smart, there's no denying that, but when it comes to the Games, being easy on the eyes is almost as valuable of a weapon as a knife.  Peeta's sponsors were generous, turning him into a desirable ally for the Careers to take under their wing, a rarity for District 12 tributes.

Katniss heads towards the better kept house and taps on the door.  Nobody answers.  The second knock goes ignored, as well as the third.  She decides he probably won't be coming to the door and turns to leave.  She's halfway down the steps when she hears it creak open.

"Katniss?" he says.  He sounds disoriented and when she turns to face him he's got this fuzzy look about him.  She must have woken him, but he looks fairly alert.  He seems more confused than anything, and why shouldn't he be?  She's never so much as spoken to him before.

"Peeta," she says.  She hadn't thought this plan all the way through, and she takes a moment to string together a few coherent words.  "I have extra squirrel meat.  I was wondering if you'd like to trade.  Your father suggested it.  I usually trade with him, if you didn't already know."

He blinks a few times and scrubs a hand through his hair, displacing the curls haphazardly on top of his head.  "Um, yeah," he says.  "Okay.  I don't really know what I'd do with it..."

"It's already skinned and gutted," she offers.  "I can include the pelt though, if you'd like."

"No.  That's fine -- it's fine.  What does he usually pay you?"

The words die on her tongue.  How can she ask him for anything?  She should be paying him.  She clears her throat and steels the emotion from her face.  Business, she reminds herself.  This is business.

"One loaf per," she says, dampening the quiver in her voice.  "Two if it's a fat one.  I've got four right here, and a rabbit too -- that's usually three if you're interested."

"I can take it all if that's what you want, but I don't have any bread right now.  I've been out of town for the past week..."

"The Capitol," she says carefully, unsure if the detail the baker passed along was a secret.

"Yes," he confirms after a hesitant pause.  "I've got the ingredients, I could make you a batch."  Then he pats his pockets as if remembering something.  His tentative smile falters.  He pulls out a wad of bills and extends it to her.  "Unless this is enough."  Only the larger values of Capitol Credits come in paper form.  Judging by the size, there's probably close to a thousand credits in his hand.

Katniss has never seen this much money in her life and her jaw slackens at the sight.  "That's too much," she says.

"Take it," he says, and he waves the money in front of her for good measure.  "I don't want it."

He's mocking her with his charity and she doesn't like it.  She picks a single bill from the stack and dumps the contents of her game bag at his feet.  "Pleasure doing business with you," she mutters before turning on her heels.

She marches away defiantly, ignoring the blinding snow that now falls in her path.  Her sense of direction is unparalleled, and she's walked every inch of the district so many times, she could do it with her eyes closed.

She zips up her hunting jacket and pulls the collar up over her ears.  Snowflakes cling to her eyelashes in blurry clumps faster than she can swat them away.  She trips over her boots and stumbles to catch herself from falling.  The snow is falling so heavily now she can't see the boot prints she's left behind.

She keeps on walking, determined to get home, but when the sky clears enough for her to gather her bearings, she realizes she's still in Victor's Village.

The cold has seeped through her jacket and boots, soaking her toes and leaving them frozen.  She can't even feel her fingers anymore, they're completely numb.  

She manages to find her way into one of the vacant houses.  It isn't locked, and she makes herself at home, bringing the fireplace to life and stripping off her soggy clothing to dry.  

The cabinets are empty -- not even a canned good to sate her hunger, and she quickly regrets her act of defiance on Peeta's porch.  She could really use the game right now, but instead is only left with a useless paper bill.  She holds it up to the flame in the fireplace, dangling the corner dangerously close to the spark.

A knock at the door startles her.  She's dressed only in her underclothes and she picks up a knitted blanket from the sofa to wrap herself in before she answers it.

"I saw the light," he says, gesturing towards the fire.

"I got turned around in the snow," she admits.  "I was going to wait out the storm someplace warm."

"Fire's the quickest way to attract a predator," he says somewhat ominously, his eyes still flitting between her and the flames.

Only if they're human, she thinks.  She smiles at him uneasily.  "I'll be sure to draw back the curtains then."

He must sense her earlier predicament because he glances towards the empty kitchen, noting the cabinets she left open, then says, "Are you hungry?  I've got some fresh squirrel and rabbit.  More than I need, really."

She scowls at him.  "I'm fine, thank you."

His smile is too friendly and she finds herself feeling guarded again.  "I was just kidding.  Katniss, please come to my house.  I've got heat and electricity too.  Besides, I'm not sure they've ever cleaned the chimney in here, so you're bound to suffocate if you'd rather be stubborn."

Her stomach betrays her and growls loudly before she can refuse him.  She let's out a resigned sigh.  "Fine," she says.

She gathers her drying clothing while he extinguishes the fire.  Her feet protest the soggy boots, and her clothes are still too damp to put back on comfortably.

"I've got a dryer," he says.  "For your clothes.  My house is only 25 yards away, the blanket should be fine."

She self consciously tightens the blanket around her body and gasps when she feels the weight of her hunting jacket draped over her shoulders.  Peeta is standing directly behind her now and the proximity makes her heart beat a bit faster.  But it's not from fear, as it should be -- Peeta's an unpredictable killer after all.  She feels her neck, flushed with heat, and reminds herself it's probably from the fire.

"Thanks," she mumbles then hurries towards the door.  The cold hits her lungs like a punch in the gut.  She can see the lights from Peeta's house in the distance and sprints towards it with him on her heel.

Inside, his house is a burst of welcoming warmth.  There's a fire roaring in the hearth, and nearly every light in the room is glowing bright as day.  She releases the breath she'd been holding and inhales the sweet, delicious scent of yeast and flour.  Her eyes dart to meet Peeta's in surprise.

"I may be able to pay you properly after all," he says.  "Unless you prefer the cash."  

She feels her fists burn at the continued evaluation of debt, like he's flaunting his ability to meet his while she never could.  She sets her jaw and silently fumes at his arrogance.

"Sorry," he says with a disingenuous grimace.  "It's obviously a sore subject.  I should probably recognize where humor is warranted.  I have this habit of using humor as a coping mechanism.  Deflection and all that.  At least that's what one of those fancy Capitol textbooks tells me."  He laughs uneasily.  "Now I'm probably making you uncomfortable.  I'm sorry, I'm rambling.  It's just been a while since I've had someone to talk to."

She perches herself on the edge of the sofa, her resolve melting along with the clumps of snow that have clung to her blanket.  "Nobody talks to you in the Capitol?" she says carefully.

"They mostly prefer not to," he says shortly.  He moves to the kitchen and pulls the bread from the oven, leaving it on the counter to cool.

"What's the point of sending you out there then?"

"I've got some very important investors -- sponsors, for the Games to keep happy."

She thinks about the footage she sees of the Capitol when the viewing is required.  Peeta is usually cavorting with Finnick Odair and his string of Capitol mistresses.  Probably the same types of women who paid Peeta's way through the Games.  He owes them his life, she supposes, but she doesn't want to think of how.

"The Games aren't until the summer though," she say.  "They don't know what they're paying for."

He doesn't answer.

There's a stew simmering on the stove and he ladles it into two bowls along with a slice of bread, which he balances on the edge.

"Squirrel stew," he says, handing a bowl to her.  "It's what my father usually makes.  I may fry one too.  That was always my favorite."

"Thank you," she says and accepts the steaming bowl.  She stirs it until it's cool enough to taste.  It's salty and savory and the squirrel meat is perfectly cooked.  Her thoughts sour the taste though, and she frowns.  "Why doesn't your family come to visit?" she says.  "Your house isn't very far."

"It's not," he agrees.  "I'd rather be alone sometimes, I guess."

"You weren't like that before."

He sets his stew aside even though the bowl is full.  "How about a game?" he says, standing from the couch.  "Do you play chess?"

He moves to the other side of the living room where there's a small table by the window with a crystal set.  Katniss recognizes the board, but the pieces are all wrong.  Horses and towers instead of flat disks.

"Is it like checkers?" she says.

"Not at all," he chuckles.  He considers it more.  "Maybe a little.  It's sort of complicated."  He spreads out the pieces and removes a few from the board.  "Here, we can play checkers this way, although I'm not sure how the whole king rule will work."

She blushes slightly.  "I don't really remember the rules."

"It doesn't matter, you'll still probably beat me.  I'm no good at this game," he says, smiling warmly at her.

She melts a bit, but her guard quickly returns.  Katniss has seen that smile before.  The sly twinkle in his eye.  He's playing her, she can tell.

She refuses to take the bait.  Instead she arches an eyebrow and scoops a heaping spoonful of stew into her mouth.  "So what's Finnick Odair like?" she says coolly.

He snorts with laughter.  "Not you too."

Sure Finnick is attractive, but he's never piqued Katniss's interest the way he has the rest of Panem.  He seems more smarmy than anything. 

"He's your friend, isn't he?" she says.

"Something like that," he says, pushing a chess piece around with his finger.

"He's awfully friendly," she notes, the implication heavy in her tone.  

She finishes her stew and picks up the slice of bread to clean the remnants from the bowl.  It's then she notices the type of bread it is.  The dense one with nuts and dried fruits.  It's the same kind he threw to her in the rain.

She feels a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach, forcing her to look away.

"Is something wrong?" he says, noting the pallor her face has probably taken.  "I can bring you something else if you don't like that kind."

She shakes her head and sits tall, forcing herself to take a bite even though her stomach is in knots.  Her eyes linger on him critically while she chews.  "Thank you," she says.

There's a knowing look in his eye and she doesn't like it.  He's not the same boy who threw her that bread all those years ago, and the more time she spends with him, the more she realizes that the monster he played in the arena wasn't entirely an act.

"So you'd like to know more about Finnick?" he says.

The bread really is quite good and she finishes her slice in a few hungry bites.  

She's almost forgotten what she was prying at before and dismisses him harshly.  "Hardly," she says.  "You've certainly embraced his lifestyle though.  Do you plan on being as wealthy as him someday?"

"I doubt it," he says with a faint smirk.  He rearranges the chess pieces in their standard formation then makes a move as if playing an imaginary opponent.  "He's got a lot more on the line than I do."

"What's that's supposed to mean?"

"You know that old saying 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'?  Finnick's got a lot more friends than I do, so he keeps a lot more enemies."

"You have plenty of friends," she says.

"Not anymore."

"You could have plenty if you wanted them."  That's what Peeta's getting at by accepting her trade and reminding her of the bread.  That she'll thank him with her body like he does with his Capitol "investors."  She doesn't know why he bothers.  He could talk any girl behind the slag heap if he wanted to -- before he won the Games, anyway.  "Cray's good at finding friends if you need any tips."

"I'm not looking for those types of friends," he says shortly.

"Then why are you being so nice to me?"

His laughter is cold.  "I enjoy your company."

She doesn't believe him.  "Everything comes with a price.  You must know that by now."

"More than you know," he says.  He moves around the chess pieces some more and snatches the tallest piece from the board.  "You're the one who came to my door, Katniss.  I never asked anything of you." 

He's right.  She bows her head, feeling ashamed for judging him.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles.  "It's hard for me to accept things without giving back in return.  I've never had enough before to give away freely."

"It's not any easier.  Being a victor.  Everyone thinks it's glamorous.  That I'm lucky.  But everyday I wake up in a new kind of hell." he says, his voice rising.  She must have struck a nerve, because there's a vulnerability to him now that was absent before.  A pain in his eye that even he couldn't fake.  

"Sure I have more than I need, but I don't want any of it.  It takes away everything.  You keep giving away every part of yourself until there's nothing left, but hey at least you know the people you care about are safe.  For now anyway."

"Safe?" she says, narrowing her eyes.

"The point of chess is to capture the King," he says, wrapping his fingers around the chess piece and trapping it in his palm.  "But people always go for the Queen first.  All the other players on the board are expendable to get to the King."  

"Peeta..."

"They don't send people like me and Finnick to the Capitol to entertain their wealthy for fun," he says harshly. 

They sell them.  Like the Seam girls who wait outside of Cray's door.  She'd already assumed, but she hadn't really thought about what it meant.  She had joked so flippantly about the girls in Cray's yard as if they were squirrels to be traded.

But they're not.  He's not.  They're only trying to survive, just like she is.

"You could refuse them.  It's not like you need the money," she say.

"It's not the money," he says.  He presses his lips together abruptly to silence himself, and she wonders what he can't tell her.

She moves to sit at the table across from him.  She's still only dressed in a blanket, and she has to adjust it around her shoulders to keep herself covered before she can reach out to place her hand over his.

He flinches and pulls it away.  "I'm not a good person to get close to," he says.

Compassion has never been Katniss's strong suit, but she knows it's something Peeta deserves.  That it's the least she can do.  "I want to," she says.

"You don't have to do that."  He smiles at her sadly then stands to distance himself by crossing back to the kitchen.

"I enjoy your company," she says stubbornly, parroting his earlier words.

"I thought you hated charity."

"I do."

"I'm dangerous, you know," he says.

"Because you won the Games?"

"That's part of it, yes."

She follows him into the kitchen defiantly and lifts herself onto the counter top.  "I'm hungry," she tells him.

He lifts an eyebrow and flashes her a disbelieving look.  "Still?"

"I thought you liked feeding me," she says shyly.

His eyes darken in a way that makes her breath hitch and her cheeks feel warm.  "Have you ever had hot chocolate?"  

He heats milk and sugar and chocolate over the stove, stirring the mixture until it's steaming and frothy.  He fills a mug for her and presses it into her hands.

She brings the cup beneath her nose experimentally and inhales deeply, her bones melting from the deliciously sweet warmth.  She blows on it gently to cool and then chances a sip of the molten liquid.  Sweet and creamy with a muted hint of bitterness, she can't suppress the approving moan that escapes her throat.

"Good?" he says.

She blushes at the embarrassing noise she made and can only barely muster a nod.  She could drink the entire pot in one sitting, but her stomach is already turning.  "It's very rich," she admits.

He cuts her another slice of bread.  "Here.  This helps balance the sugar."

"Thank you," she says.  She dips the corner into her cup, mimicking the way Peeta eats his.  It tastes even more wonderful, and again she's humming sounds that make her feel foolish until she notices the way Peeta's watching her.  "Sorry," she says sheepishly.

"No.  It's okay," he says.  His cheeks are a bit ruddy and when he swallows, his Adam's apple bobs visibly.  "I'm glad you like it.  Would you like more?" he asks when she drains her cup.

She licks the sugary remnants from her lips, noting the way his eyes follow the drag of her tongue.

"No thank you," she says.

"Can I get you anything else?  I could make you something else.  Anything really."

"This was good, thank you."

He seems nervous, fidgeting about the kitchen to keep himself busy, maybe from the sugar, but it seems like something else is bothering him.  "Your clothes are probably dry, I should get them."

"Peeta, wait," she says, stilling him simply by touching his arm.  "Slow down."

"It's no trouble," he says, smiling at her in earnest.

"Do you ever do anything for yourself?"

Katniss always thought she was generous with her trades, but she could never be this selfless, only with Prim, maybe, but she's her sister.  Katniss is virtually a stranger to Peeta -- rude to him at that, yet he treats her with such kindness.

"It's not necessary," he says.  His eyes flit to where the blanket dips across her chest and he looks away quickly.

"There's nothing you want?"

"Like I said before, I enjoy your company."

She feels her fingers tremble.  "Why?"

"I don't know," he says, letting out an uneasy laugh.  "I guess seeing you again reminded me what it was like to feel something again.  It was nice."

"Why me?"

He fixes her with a gaze that drains the breath from her lungs.  "You know why," he says.  "You must."

A million stolen glances flash behind her eyelids.  She never realized how often she'd noticed him, but she had, and he had been noticing her too.

Her heart pounds in her ears and she can feel a rush of heat to the tips of her fingers.

"What do you want, Peeta?" she asks, but her voice no longer sounds like her own.

He takes a step closer and plays with the edge of the blanket for only a second before he draws his hand away.

"I really, really like you," he says huskily, and her entire body seems to respond to the growl in his voice.

She moves her hand to his chest and presses her palm flat against where his heart is beating wildly.

"How does that feel?" she says.

His eyes slip shut.  "Good," he says, nodding eagerly. 

She traces the hardened planes of his chest, fueled by the heady smile that slants his mouth.  It feels like something foreign is pumping through her blood.  It heightens her senses.  Her skin tingles, begging to be touched.  Her mouth waters, hungry for something she can't describe.

She slips off the counter and moves to close the distance between them until their toes are touching.  He's holding his breath, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides.  "You don't owe me anything, Katniss," he say tightly.

She touches her lips to his hesitantly at first.  Her fingers brush his cheek, rough with the day's stubble.  He murmurs a protest and she presses her mouth against his more firmly.  He yields after a few kisses, his lips plying to hers and his hands snaking around her waist.

"That was nice," he whispers when they part.

And it is.  Their kisses are the type that leaves her feeling dizzy, and lingering this close, she's hungry for another.  She kisses him again, rolling forward on her toes so that their mouths are aligned and she can kiss him deeper.  She shivers when his tongue touches hers, her fingernails scraping against his chin.  He does it again, coaxing her mouth to open wide.

It feels like they've been kissing for hours, but only a few minutes have passed.  The heat that has pooled in her chest begins to spread, flushing her neck and cheeks.  There's a pleasant buzz that's settled just beneath her belly and it drives her to press her body flush against his.

He peels the blanket from around her shoulders, which she sheds eagerly, and then his hands are exploring her curves over her underclothes.  She feels him push insistently into her hip, catching her off guard.  She shouldn't be surprised that kissing him this way would have that sort of effect, but she's never been this close to someone before, and although she understands the mechanics, she's never contemplated the details.

She brushes her fingers against the bulge in his pants experimentally.  The approving sound he makes vibrates against her lips, and she strokes him again, more boldly this time.  His erection swells in her palm and he begins to thrust shallowly into her hand while they kiss.

"Should I..." she answers her own question by unfastening his pants.  They fall loosely from his hips, pooling at his feet, leaving him only in his undershorts, which are tented by his straining erection.

She wraps her fingers around him and pumps lightly over the fabric.  "Do you like this?" 

He chuckles and pinches her hip.  "I like everything you do," he says.

"Would it be better if..." she begins to say, but she's too embarrassed to say it out loud.  She should take off his underwear, but then he'd be naked down there, and then what?

She kisses him instead to calm her nerves.  It relaxes her almost instantly, and the buzzing in the pit of her stomach dips lower, settling between her legs in a dull ache.  She craves his touch more and more and she sighs audibly when he palms her breast through her thin tank top.  He rolls her pebbled nipple between his fingers, pinching until she yelps, and then, without warning, his hand strokes down her stomach and slips between her legs.

He begins to stroke her, and the delicious friction against her cleft causes her knees to buckle.  He expertly locates the small bundle of nerves that seem to crave attention most, and he presses two digits against it, circling it with tight circles.

Her hips buck against his hand to keep up with his tempo.  Every part of her being seems to be connected to where his fingers touch her, and her arousal builds in a damp heat that slickens her folds.  He pushes the elastic band of her underwear aside to dip a finger inside her.  

The invasion isn't exactly pleasant at first.  It's an odd sensation that feels infinitely better when he stretches her with a second.  He pumps his fingers inside her, coating them with her arousal before finding her clit again.  He presses the bud more firmly this time, his deft fingers circling her with such fervor she can hardly stand.

"Say my name," he says when her eyelids grow heavy.  "Please."

She's dangling so close to something just out of her reach.  She bites her lower lip, worrying the flesh between her teeth as she focuses her attention on this growing pleasure.

"Katniss, please."

Her grip tightens around his shoulders and her eyebrows knit in concentration.  The pressure continues to build and it's impossible to locate where it begins anymore, it all feels so good.

She comes with a languid sigh, her breath ragged from holding it too long.

She opens her eyes slowly, her gaze locking with his out of focus.

She's half laying on the counter now, using her elbows for support, since her legs are a useless puddle.  He's looking down at her with silent reverie, one hand cradling her face while the other stays nested between her legs.  He bends down to kiss her.  "I want to make you come again, okay?"

"Okay," she says on the edge of a shuddering breath.  "What about you?"

"I'm fine," he says, hoisting her off her feet and wrapping her legs around his waist.  "I just want you."

He lays her across the dining room table and swats aside the trinkets that litter the center, sending them toppling to the floor.  He strips off his shirt and discards it on the floor.  Katniss remembers Peeta getting a few wounds during his Games, including a deep slash across his chest, but his skin is polished clean, with only a few patches of freckles blemishing it.

He toys with the hem of her tank top next.  "May I?"  She sits up and lifts her arms over her head to help then lays back.  His eyes are so dark, they're no longer blue.  He admires her like she's a meal, and already she can feel that pleasant pooling at her center.

He hovers above her, their bare chests flush as they kiss.  His lips trail down her neck to the valley between her breasts.  He's looking up at her when his mouth covers her breast, and their eyes stay connected when his tongue flicks over the tightened peak.  She keens, her back struggling to arch off the table, but he pins her firmly in place.  He licks the dusky bud again and smiles around the mound at her approving sigh.

He moves to her other breast, replacing his mouth with his hand to work them both in tandem.  He groans when she combs her fingers through his hair to urge his ministrations.  Then he kisses down her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her underwear.

Her breath hitches and her toes curl in anticipation.  "Shouldn't we -- don't we need..." she says.  She's not on any sort of pill or shot like they have in the Capitol to prevent pregnancy, and she refuses to take any chances, regardless of what her body is currently demanding.

"It's okay, not yet.  Not yet," he says.  He slips off her underwear then settles between her legs to position his face at her entrance.

Her hips buck wildly and she clenches her thighs together tightly when his tongue first touches her folds.  He eases her legs apart and affectionately kisses the inside of her thigh.

Her body relaxes and this time she welcomes his tongue when he kisses her there.  A moan escapes her when he sucks her sensitive bundle of nerves between his lips, and she covers her mouth to muffle the next one.

"No, please," he says.  "I like to hear you."

She remember his earlier request and tries to stifle the embarrassment she feels at making a show.  "Peeta," she moans when he pumps his finger inside her.  He licks her more furiously, thrusting in a second finger and then a third.

 

"Fuck, Katniss," he murmurs against her folds.

She can't stand it anymore and her hips begin to roll with abandon.  He pins her against the edge of the table and hitches her leg over his shoulder to bury his face deeper.

"Peeta," she nearly screams, fighting the edge of her orgasm.

He replaces his tongue with his thumb, swirling her clit until she plummets, boneless against the table.

"Thank you," he pants, his cheek resting against her thigh.

"Why are you thanking me?" she says.  Suddenly she realizes the extent of her nudity, and she uses the corner of the tablecloth to help cover her.

"I've never really wanted to do that to anyone else before.  But I really liked it with you."  He sits on his knees so only his chin is above the table.  "Honestly, I've only wanted to do any of this with you.  Sometimes I pretend..." he says, but quickly stops himself.  "I'm sorry, that's weird."

She sits up, pulling the tablecloth along with her.  The thought leaves her feeling uneasy -- he barely knows her, but after what he's been through, she can't fault him.  She's held onto a fantasy of him after he tossed her the bread for a decade.

"It's not," she says.  He sits up to kiss her, the taste of her still lingering slightly on his lips.  She wants to be disgusted, but there's something exciting about it.  "What else do you want, Peeta?"

He groans and drags his mouth to her neck, chuckling against her throat between kisses.  "Keep doing that."

She hasn't done anything for him yet, and he still wears his arousal obviously on his lap.  She should touch him or something, but she hesitates.

"Can I take you upstairs?" he says.

He carries her to his bedroom along with the tablecloth.  She's starting to feel tired and his plush mattress isn't helping her fight sleep.  She awakens when he begins to kiss her again, his hand idly playing with her breast to reignite the fading hunger.

He leaves her briefly to retrieve a foil packet from a fancy silver box.  In the Districts, birth control is hard to come by, but in the Capitol they have more forms than she can keep track of.

Peeta removes his undershorts, leaving them both naked.  Her eyes are drawn to his erection, although she tries not to look at it.  The skin is a deeper red than the rest of him, and when she touches him, he almost feels like velvet.

He offers her the packet.  "Do you want to?" he says.  Her eyes widen and she shakes her head, quickly dismissing the idea.  He rolls the condom down his length and climbs onto the bed to position himself between her legs.

She gasps when he brushes her entrance.  "I've never done this before," she finally admits.

His face falls.  "What?"

"I haven't -- any of this."

"What?" he repeats.  He blinks a few times.  "Why are you doing this?"

"I don't know," she says honestly.

"Do you want me to stop?  I will," he says and begins to roll away.

She cages his hips with her knees.  "No.  Keep going.  I want you to." 

He stares at her with uncertainty for a moment, his gaze hardening in the dim light.  He balances himself above her and sinks into her slowly.  It pinches at first, her body resisting his girth.  She stretches to accommodate him, spreading her legs and angling her hips until the discomfort begins to wane.

She tries to match his rhythm, rolling to meet every thrust, letting the movements of their bodies drive this new found pleasure.  It's not as intense as when he used his fingers or mouth, but she's still cresting something wonderful.  His pace quickens and his thrusts grow less study.

It's odd.  Although he's inside her, he feels impossibly far away.  The moments downstairs seemed so intimate, but now she's left feeling cold.  She gives up on finding release, and can only tighten her walls around him to coax his own escape.  He comes after a few erratic thrusts, and pulls out of her almost instantly to discard the condom.

She's not sure if they're supposed to talk afterward, and part of her doesn't want to.  All of her clothing is downstairs, so she slips beneath the covers, naked, and pretends to sleep.

At some point the mattress dips beside her, but the bed remains cold.

When she wakes, her clothes are dry and folded at the foot of the bed, and his side is empty.  It's only when she's dressed that she notices the fold of Capitol Credits on the night stand, and knows that they're for her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the incredible response to this story. I hope this doesn't let you all down! I had to break this second part up because it was getting a little out of hand. It picks up from Peeta's POV. Hopefully I'll have the last part up soon!

Peeta draws back the torn curtains and ducks his head enough to peer beyond them to where his house is.  The only track of foot prints lead here, to Haymitch's door, where he's been hiding out since before the sun rose.  Which means Katniss hasn't left yet.

Nearly two feet of snow fell during the storm the night before, and since there are only two residents in Victor's Village (both hermits, on top of that) their roads are the last to be cleared, if the district even gets to them before the snow melts.

It could be another day before it's safe to make the trek back to the Seam, maybe two if the wind picks up again.  He feels a small thrill at the prospect of spending more time with her, no matter what the fee may be.  She doesn't want him.  Not really.  But even if she's just using him for his wealth, or some misplaced guilt, in a way, he knows he's using her too.

 _Using_.  That's an important distinction.  It's safe as long as it's just about the money.

He presses his forehead against the smudged glass.  What is wrong with him?

Haymitch stirs behind him, rustling the glass bottles that litter the lopsided table.

"What are you doing here?" he slurs blearily, scrubbing the sleep and hangover from his face.

"I brought you breakfast," Peeta says, nodding towards the bread on the table before his attention returns to the window.

Haymitch scowls at it.  "I don't want it," he says.

"More for me then."

Haymitch picks up the loaf and rips away a chunk with his teeth.  "I changed my mind," he mumbles around a full mouth.  "Bird watching?" he says, noting the direction of Peeta's intent gaze.

"I'm hiding out."

"That house isn't haunted boy," he says gruffly.  "It's you."

Peeta wants to roll his eyes, but can't bring himself to do so.  "I had some unexpected company last night."

"Oh," Haymitch says lifting his eyebrows curiously.

Peeta feels a flush rise to his ears at the implication.  "It's not what you think," he says shortly.

"I wasn't thinking anything."

He sighs heavily, feeling Haymitch's eyes on him.  "Maybe it is," he admits.

Haymitch grimaces with a loud, displeased groan.  "Kid, there are some things I really don't need to know."

Peeta chances one last look out the window before he moves to sit in one of the broken chairs at the table.  Haymitch's house is styled and furnished identical to his, but his former mentor has taken wear and tear to another level.

He takes the loaf from Haymitch and slices off a corner that hasn't been crumbled.  "I did something stupid last night," he says, staring at the piece of bread in his hands.

"Doesn't sound too out of the ordinary."

Peeta thinks over his choice of words, his eyes flitting around the room wondering where the Capitol is listening from.  There's no reason to censor himself too much; he and Katniss spoke openly about the terms of their trade, although there was no mention of how she acquired so much meat.  It doesn't matter though, Peeta is pretty sure that Katniss's poaching is the least of her troubles now.

"A girl came to buy bread," he finally settles with.  "I guess the stock at my father's bakery has been running low lately."

Haymitch perks up at this.  "How so?"

"There's barely been any flour on the trains for weeks now," he says dismissively.  He didn't come here to discuss his father's business.

"Did she say anything about the other shops?"

Peeta narrows his eyes.  Haymitch rarely puts in the effort to chain more than a few monosyllabic grunts together in his presence and now he wants a rundown of the town gossip.

"She didn't mention it, but anyone would have to be pretty desperate to come all the way out here."

"It's stuffy in here," Haymitch says.  It's always stuffy in his house, and the stale odor of vomit and liquor has seeped into every flat surface leaving a vile stench no matter how many times you scrub at the stains.  

But Peeta knows how Haymitch operates, and an offhand comment like this one isn't about cracking a window.  It's about getting away from the bugs that infest every room.

"You want to take a walk?" Peeta says.

He grabs the shovel he'd left on Haymitch's porch after the first snow fall of the season.  All of Haymitch's tools had been buried in the shed out back, and when Peeta's own shovel had broken, he had to dig out the door with his bare hands to get to it.

Peeta begins to clear a path from the porch to the cobblestone walkway that joins all twelve houses in a large courtyard.  The fountain at the center probably has a wire along with the iron gate at the edge of the fence, so they settle someplace in between and use the metallic cut of his shovel to shroud their voices.

"The districts are rebelling," Haymitch tells him.

"You think?" 

Peeta's been hearing this kind of talk amongst the Victors for years now.  Rumblings here and there about how easy it could be if they all banded together.  He thinks their intentions are good, but it only takes one flash of District 13's rubble to remind him what's at stake.  The Capitol isn't afraid to level an entire population to make an example out of them.

"If it's grain, it must be nine and eleven," Haymitch says. 

Peeta plants his shovel in the snow and takes a minute to catch his breath.  The exertion makes him warm yet cold at the same time, his heart beating rapidly while sweat freezes at his temples.

"How's that supposed to work?  We're supposed to blame the Capitol because other districts are letting us starve?"

"Trust me boy, everyone already knows who they want to blame.  We've all got a common enemy, there's no way around that."

"Yeah?  Then why don't we just take him out?  Instead we line up a bunch of dominoes in between and wait for them all to tumble.  What good is that?"

"Because if another Snow steps in to take his place, we'd like to leave some more pieces to pick up," Haymitch says.

Peeta clenches his jaw and reaches for his shovel again.  He's tired of sitting around helplessly while he watches other people suffer, but there's nothing he can do.  Not without others having to pay a price.

The door to his house slams, the crack echoing all throughout the village.  He sees Katniss trudge through the snow with her hands balled into fists at her sides.  She makes her way to the path he's cleared, marching towards him.

Their eyes meet coldly and he waits for her to make the first move.  He should probably be angry with her, she used him after all.  Sure, she never asked him for any money, but he can't shake the feeling.  He's seen how Katniss is with unpaid debts.  Every transaction with her down to a smile comes with a monetary value.

He can't help it though.  He clings to the blissful moments when he thought she could love him.  It's pathetic, he knows, but he's been numb for so long, to feel anything -- even pain, is a welcome relief.

He wishes he could kiss her one last time, while he still has the chance, but the fire in her gaze tells him he'd be crossing a line.

Ripping up the Capitol Credits in her hand, she lets them flutter to the ground like confetti, and then she spits right into his eye.  "Stay away from me," she sneers before walking away.

"I like her," Haymitch says, watching after her as she fights with the iron gate, then hops over it when it doesn't budge.

Me too, he wants to say, but he can't even trust Haymitch with that type of information.  He digs his shovel into the snow and tries not to look wounded.  Indifference means everything, and he's worked hard to perfect the part.

Except around her.  It's better that she hates him.  He only wishes that this scene unfolded where the Capitol could hear, because then she'd be safe.

"Well what are we doing, standing around out here," Haymitch says, bundling his jacket tight.  "It's freezing."  He pulls his flask from his coat pocket and empties it in a long swig as he stumbles back up the stairs that lead to his house.

Peeta isn't ready to go inside.  All he'll be able to think about is her.  The way she felt, the way she tasted, her scent still lingering on his sheets.  Instead he stares at the shreds of paper caked into the slushy snow.

She didn't take the money.  It would be foolish to think that means anything, so he doesn't dwell on it. 

He continues to shovel until all of Victor's Village is cleared, and when he goes inside, he bakes through the night; every type of loaf he used to make at the bakery.  He throws the bread into a sack and takes it into town, dropping it off with his father.  He is sure to set one loaf aside -- the hearty one with the nuts and fruits, which he's made just for her.

He does this every morning for a week.  Two dozen basic loaves and a special one, which he specifies to his father is to be traded only with Katniss.  She doesn't come back to the bakery, but he persists, certain that she'll eventually return.

On Monday morning, when Peeta makes his delivery, his father tells him, apologetically, that Katniss has refused his trade, opting for his father's flat, tasteless loaves instead.  He can't say he's surprised, and he's not sure what he expected, but he's disappointed all the same.

Haymitch is running low on white liquor, and since the winter has been a harsh one, Peeta has been sure to keep a large stock at home.  He stops at the Hob to buy a few more bottles from Ripper, and while he's there, takes the time to spread some of the credits weighing down his pockets.

Katniss was onto something, shredding the bills the way she did.  The paper always burns in his hands.  The whole lot of it.  It doesn't matter where it came from -- winnings from the Games, his earnings as an escort -- it's always dirty.

"What are you doing here?"

He looks from the fold of money in his palm to meet a familiar gray gaze.  "Hey Katniss," he says, slipping the money into his pocket.

"I told you to stay away from me," she says harshly.  "I don't want anything from you."

"I was doing some shopping," he explains, gesturing to the pair of white liquor bottles he cradles in his arm. 

She rolls her eyes at him and roughly adjust her game bag over her shoulder.  "You're trying to get to me.  With the bread at the bakery," she says.  "Your father's always been good to me, but I won't trade with him anymore if you don't stop what you're doing."

He looks away, unable to meet her eye when he says, "You didn't take your payment -- for the squirrels."

Her face pales.  "You're disgusting," she says, her voice burning like venom.

Peeta sets his jaw to mask the sting he feels.  When he was in the arena, he had to do this often.  School his expression into a different person entirely so he could get beneath his opponent's skin.  It sickens him to act this way -- it reminds him of his mother, hardened and cruel, but it's proven to be one of the greatest weapons he has.

"I'm sorry if there was any confusion about our arrangement," he says.

She snorts at this, shaking her head in disbelief.  "It's crystal clear now, believe me."

He can't stand it anymore and he sighs, taking a step closer and bowing his head to lower his voice.  "You should have taken the money, Katniss," he says, then slips past her and into the crowd.

It's true.  It would have been so much easier if she'd taken the money, because then he could hate her.  He could go back to feeling cold and empty inside rather than holding onto this small sliver of hope that he could have had her if the circumstances were different.

Now he's trapped in this prison, unable to let her go, but terrified of what will happen if he tries to get close to her.

"Why'd you do it?" her voice stills him from outside the old coal storage house. 

He turns to face her, heels crunching in the snow.  "Does it even matter?"

Her round eyes shimmer slightly, and for a brief moment he almost mistakes her as vulnerable.

"It does to me," she says.

He let's out a heavy breath, which clouds around his face in the frigid air.  "I meant what I said that night," he admits.  "Every word.  I told you I'm not a good person to get close to, and now you know."

She turns her chin away, her Everdeen pride finally catching up with her.  "I guess so."

It's quiet for a moment.  Out of all of District 12, The Hob is probably the safest place to speak freely, assuming those in the Capitol who matter don't know it exists.  Peeta chances it anyway.  He needs to know for certain.

"What about you?" he says abruptly.  "If it wasn't for the money, why did you do it?"

"I don't know," she says, same as she did the night they spent together, and he wants to laugh because he'll never be able to unravel her code.

"That's not an answer."

She hesitates.  "You were being so kind to me.  I wanted to do something for you," she says, her eyes trained on her boots.  She chews her bottom lip between her teeth, her tongue peeking out just enough for him to see.  "And... I liked it."

His cock stirs at the memory of her face, flush with desire each time he made her come.  For him.  It had been because of him.

He purses his lips doubtfully.  "That's because you'd never done it before.  It could have been anyone and you would have liked it just the same."

"Yeah.  Probably," she adds with more conviction.  Her gaze lingers on him and he wonders if he could get away with kissing her.  He's always thinking about that now, but the way she's looking at him makes him think she actually wants him to.  "I'd probably like it better."

"Well you let me know when you find out.  I'll make you a counteroffer," he says then turns on his heel but not before catching the undeniable red hue staining her cheeks.  _Is she thinking about that night?_ he wonders to himself.  He laughs quickly, just a short jut of air that barely passes for humor.  She's probably considering all the ways she wants to destroy him.

He's only made it a few steps when his conscience overwhelms his bravado.  His shoulders deflate and already he feels small and weak.  He can't pretend around her.  It's too hard.

"I'm sorry," he says.  Their eyes lock in a long moment of silence.  When she looks away he knows that it's time for him to go.

* * *

Peeta pinches the stem of his ornate glass and swirls the bright liquid still lingering at the bottom.  It's far too tart, but even that doesn't hide the sharp sterile taste of the alcohol lingering behind it.  He empties it in one heavy gulp and then exchanges his glass for a full one when an elaborately dressed avox passes by.

The room is smoky and dark, more intimate than the usual Capitol gathering.  The sparsely placed lights have a purple glow that only seem to catch the light colored pigments, highlighting eyes and teeth and neon colored lipsticks.  The drinks and appetizers are also colored in a way that radiates light in an unearthly way.

"It's a shame they don't have more of those jumbo shrimp," Finnick says beside him.  He's nursing his own drink and picking apart some sort of savory puff pastry.  "They're only serving the canned stuff.  What do they think we are animals?"

Peeta gives him a pointed look.  "Why don't you lodge a formal complaint with the mayor of your fine district then."

"Oh he's busy with much more exciting things," Finnick says with a dramatic sigh.

Peeta catches the hinting tone in his voice and looks away.  Haymitch was right.  Nine and eleven have rebelled, and District Four is in the process as well.

"How's good ole District Twelve?" Finnick says, his grin too broad and his green eyes daring.  "Think we'll all stay warm this winter?"

Another loaded question.  Peeta stares straight ahead as he takes a sip from his drink.  "We really can't do much else," he says.  District Twelve leading the charge in a rebellion is ridiculous.  The people are too hungry to be angry.  And picketing the mines almost guarantees the district freezing to death.  They don't have the bartering powers of the other districts.

Peeta catches the gaze of a woman sitting at a crystal table where the room lofts.  Her auburn hair cascades in ringlets around her shoulders and her sleek black dress is accented with metallic details that pick up the purple lighting.  What's most striking about her is her stunning makeup, painted in a way that makes it look like her eyes are open even when they're closed.

She calls an avox to her table and places a small fold of paper in their hand.  Then her finger lands on him from across the room.

"Who's that?" Peeta asks Finnick.  He's never seen her before.

It only takes a brief flash of recognition before a wolfish grin spreads across Finnick's face.  "Dracaena Kane," he nearly sings.  "That's Snow's favorite mistress."

The avox from her table approaches him and places the slip of paper in his palm.  Peeta's afraid to open it.  He already knows what it will say.  A room number and a time.

"What would she want with me?"

Finnick cuffs his hand around Peeta's shoulder.  "You're one of the prettier less broken things around here."  Finnick plucks the note between two fingers and waves it grandly at Dracaena before slipping it into the pocket on his suit jacket.

She shakes her head and points a sharp looking finger at Peeta again.

"She's either looking to give or to dig up some information," Finnick says, his tone now guarded, a contrast to his earlier easy going lilt.  "You think you're up for it?"

Peeta doesn't have a choice.  He flashes a polite smile towards his suitress then takes the written request from Finnick to pocket it.

"Don't tell her anything.  Just be a real good listener."

Peeta's starting to feel a little dizzy and the neon green drink isn't helping.  His ears are ringing and although he can see Finnick's lips moving -- relaying important instructions, he's sure-- he can't make out a single word.

He's just been hand selected to be the president's bed warmer.  A mere connection away from the most powerful man in the country.  Every breath of pillow talk will damn him, no doubt.  That is if Snow even knows that they'll be sharing a lover.  

He'd rather not consider the alternative.

An hour after she's left the party, Peeta hails a car to take him to the address she's left him.  When he slips into the backseat, he pops a few of the pills Finnick had handed to him upstairs and swallows them dry.  The drugs take too long to sink in, and he finds himself staring listlessly out the window as the bright Capitol lights flash by in blurring streams, trying not to think of her.

What Katniss would think of him right now?  High out of his mind while he tries to fuck another stranger.

He catches a flicker of his reflection in the pristine glass and has to look away when he's overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.

It's better not to think of her.  It's better not to think of anything at all.

When he arrives at the suite, she's sitting at a small vanity in the corner beside the washroom.  She's removed the dramatic makeup from the party and is reapplying a fresh coat of something more appropriate for bed.  It's still flashes of bright colors and intricately drawn patterns though, and Peeta finds himself longing for fresh, clean olive skin and thatches of body hair drawing him in with a heady, natural scent.

Nothing in the Capitol feels real.  Not like Katniss.

His hands clench into fists at his sides.  No more thinking, he reminds himself.

"I received your invitation," he says, drawing her attention to his side of the room.  He forces himself to smile.  "I'm Peeta Mellark."

Her eyes are large for her face and round too.  Her face is also perfectly round it seems, except for her chin which ends at a sharp point.  She lights up when she sees him.  "You are!" she says.  She finishes drawing some sort of looping swirl around her eye then stands slowly.  "I've been waiting for you.  Come.  Sit, sit," she says ushering him towards the bed at the center of the room.

She crawls onto the silk duvet on her hands and knees and tilts her chin to the side, her face mere inches from his.  "How does this look?" she says.

Peeta's eyes follow the twisting patterns of lines drawn along the side of her face and gives her an approving nod.

"You think?" she says cringing slightly.  "I hate it.  Whoever runs the fashion industry must be blind."

He smiles tightly.

"You men are so lucky.  You get away with only having to wax your chest."  Her lips purse and her eyebrow lifts into a perfect arch.  "Or are the rumors true, about the enhanced endowments?"

His eyes widen and she laughs.  "Everyone thinks you're such a Lothario, but I see right through you."

He feels even foggier than he did before.  Usually he can keep better wits, but he's never really drank this much beforehand.  He blinks a few times somewhat blearily then tries to regain control of his suddenly heavy tongue.  "Do you now?" he manages to say.

"Oh yes," she says, picking up his chin with her fingers to keep his head steady.  Her wide eyes peer into his, too close to focus.  "All my friends say you and Finnick Odair are one in the same.  But I don't think that.  I think you're soft."

He smiles lazily at her.  "I can fix that if you just give me a minute."

"I know how it works," she says.  "The arrangement was the same for me.  But your family is still breathing so you must not care for them much."  He tenses at the suggestion, but keeps his expression passive.  "What does he have on you?  How does he own you?"

"I do what I'm told."

"I bet," she says, cocking her head to the side.  She stares into his eyes searching for something he refuses to reveal.  "I want to know what breaks you.  You only pretend to be broken.  I don't think that's fair."

"Why are you doing this?  Snow?"

She climbs off the bed and returns to her vanity where she continues to color the design around her eye.  "Like he cares," she scoffs.  "You haven't crossed him yet.  You've been a good little pet.  No.  I've taken a personal interest."

"Why?"

"I'm not originally from the Capitol," she says.  "My brother was a tribute from District One."  She pauses to stare daggers at him and says flatly: "He didn't win."

Peeta scrubs a hand over his face tiredly.  "I didn't kill him, did I?"

"No, this was long before your time."  She smiles coyly.  "How old do you think I am?"  His scrambled brain would guess around Finnick's age, but he doesn't trust his brain much right now.  "He made it to the top eight, which is how I was discovered.  Apparently I have the face of Snow's great love.  At least a face close enough.  They were able to fill in all the missing details.  But me being the unruly teen I was, I wasn't exactly a model prisoner.  I enjoyed the perks and power that came along with it, but I got bored with playing the part and I was ready to go home."  She leans in close to the mirror to brush a dark line beneath her lower lid.  "That wasn't an option."

She places the brush in a small cup beside her makeup pallet then pivots on her stool to face him.  "My sister was reaped after I'd been assured all my siblings would be exempt from the Games.  He let her win when I agreed to stay."

"What does this have to do with me?" Peeta says.

She crosses to the bed and he falls easily against the mattress when she taps him on the shoulder.  "I think you're hiding something," she says as she climbs into his lap and straddles his hips.  "And I think you're desperate enough to keep that secret."

* * *

He's been home for three days when there's a knock at his door.  The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds in dusty beams, too bright for his ragged eyes, and he rubs them as he stomps to answer the door.

It's Katniss.

She bunches her canvas game bag in her hand.  "I heard you were in the Capitol," she says, never meeting his eye.

His throat tightens and he has to clear it before he can speak.  "Yes," he says simply.  "Have you come to trade?"

Her eyes flick up, a quick flash of gray and then it's gone again.  It's enough to make his heart swell and his hands ache to touch her.  He's so tired and lonely and empty, he's ready to lose himself in her again.

"You should leave," he says, more harshly than he intended, but it's better that way.  It would be better if she left.

She reaches into her canvas bag to retrieve a small wooden box and climbs the three porch steps to hand it to him.  He hesitates to open it.

"It's checker pieces -- for your set," she says when he finally lifts the lid.  "I saw them at the Hob, someone made them out of a corn cob or something.  I thought we could maybe play sometime, since I'm not any good at chess."

He lets out a heavy, pained sigh and replaces the lid.  "Why are you doing this, Katniss?"

"I'm worried about you," she says.

"You don't owe me anything."

"I know," she says quietly.  "I never asked you for help, when we were kids -- the bread..."  She's looking everywhere but at him and it makes him feel shameful because she knows where he's been and what he's done and she pities him and is disgusted by him at the same time and he can't tell which one is worse.  "You helped me anyway."

He should say something nasty to her so she'll leave, but he can only stare at her.

"I'm so tired, Katniss," he admits.

She climbs the last step and wraps her arms around him.  He resists at first, his arms limp at his sides, but then his entire body shudders, collapsing with a violent sob and her tiny frame is supporting his full weight.

She guides him back into the house and deposits him on the couch where he cries into her lap.  The feeling of her fingers stroking his scalp is impossibly good and the soft, soothing melodies she hums warms him to the bone, and then he's crying again because he'll never be able to keep her, and then finally, exhaustion takes him under.

Katniss isn't a very good cook.  It's dark out when he wakes and almost instantly a bowl of stew is being pushed into his hands.  It's all salt and pepper and boiled meat that's tough to chew.  It's obvious that Katniss isn't used to having a rack full of spices.  There are a couple of green sprigs he sees mixed in, but only a small, experimental pinch that barely makes an impact on his taste buds.

He cleans the bowl anyway and accepts seconds when she offers.  He'd do anything to make her stay a little longer.

She perches herself on the edge of the coffee table across from him.  "How are you feeling?"

He feels embarrassed over his earlier outburst.  Showing weakness is dangerous, but he can't help himself around her.

"Sorry about that," he says sheepishly.  "I get a bit wallowy from time to time."

There's uncertainty in her gaze, like she still doesn't trust his sincerity.  That's a good thing, he reminds himself, but it still stings.

"It's getting late," she says.  "I should get home."

He bites his tongue before he can offer to walk her.  Parading around town with Katniss will probably put her in more danger than letting her go alone.  His moment of vulnerability has passed.  It's time to let her go again.

He walks her to the door and lingers behind it when it shuts.  The box of checker pieces sits forgotten on the table beside the large bay window.  He flips open the lid and scatters a few pieces across the board, replacing the crystal chess pieces with the lopsided slices of stained husk.

He takes the king first, but quickly sets it back in its place.  It could never be that easy.  You could never win the game in a single move.

She returns on Sunday with a bag full of game.  He shows her how to fry squirrels in a shallow pot of oil and after they drop spoonfuls of biscuit batter into the sizzling grease.  Peeta can't take his eyes off her as she licks her shiny fingers clean, her smile beaming around a mouthful of food.  

They spend the rest of the evening quietly pushing checker pieces around the board.  Katniss has the rules all wrong and bounces a disk in moves and directions that aren't allowed, clearing all of his pieces with a triumphant grin.  Peeta doesn't tell her this, only bows his head in defeat with a chuckle.

"You're letting me win," she says, her eyes fixing him with one of her suspicious glares.

"You're making me lose," he corrects her.

The following weekend he's sent to the Capitol for an important official's birthday party.  He's one of the gifts.  

He sits beneath a scalding stream in the shower until his skin is raw and the water turns to ice.  At one point he covers the drain and lays face down on the porcelain tile so his nose and mouth are submerged.  He keeps still waiting for the tightening in his lungs as the last ounce of oxygen burns away.  When he can't hold on a moment longer, his arms slacken and the water swirls away and he lies on his side gasping for air.

Why won't he just put himself out of his misery.  What's the point of hanging around?  "Victor" is such a taunting title.  He didn't win anything.

He can hear the muffled sound of knocking, dull thuds that taper off then start up again just as quickly.  He shuts off the water and reaches blindly for a towel to wrap around his waist.

"It's Sunday," Katniss says timidly when he answers the door.  She looks everywhere but at him again.  Somebody must have told her where he was.  His father, probably.

He scrubs a hand over his face and leans against the edge of the frame.  "I'm kind of tired," he says.

She stares at his chest and he wonders if there are scars from the night before that catch her eye.

"From your trip?" she says, her voice cool and even.

"Yeah."

He looks down at her canvas game bag hanging loosely from her hand.  "I'll take whatever you have," he says.  "Go and take what you want for it."

He steps aside to allow her entrance and she meanders through the kitchen while he dresses upstairs.  When he returns she's weighing a bar of baking chocolate and a tin of cocoa in her hands.

"I want to make hot chocolate," she says.  "For my sister.  She has a goat."

"Okay..." he says slowly.  He moves to the cupboard to retrieve a glass jar and a large tin of sugar.  He takes the baking chocolate and deposits it back in the fridge.  "This stuff tastes awful," he says waving it at her for good measure.  "This stuff too," he says when he takes the tin of cocoa.  "It's mostly sugar, actually," he says, filling the jar about two thirds of the way with white crystals, and then topping it off with the fine, powdery cocoa.  "I've never made it with goat's milk though.  I'm sure it tastes the same."

"Thank you," she says, slipping the jar into her game bag.  She starts towards the door.

"Is that all you want?" he says.  Suddenly he doesn't want her to leave, even though he knows that she should.  "I can make you something."

"It's fine," she says.  "Now that it's warmer there are more plants in season to pick.  There's a hill north of here --"  

He cuts her off before she can finish her thought.  He taps on his ear and then points up toward the ceiling where their voices are being recorded.  It seems like a silly precaution since she's been bringing him poached game for weeks, but she's never said how or where she's gotten it from.

He's not even sure there's anybody listening.

She bobs her head with a comprehending nod, but then an idea seems to flicker, brightening her eyes.  "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"I kind of try to keep a low profile."

"Discretion will be important for this," she says and then he understands.  She wants to take him into the woods.  "I think some fresh air will do you good."

"I'm tired."

"I know," she says.  "And I don't think being in here is helping."

Being around her isn't helping, but he doesn't say it out loud.  A victor slipping beyond the fence sounds like a suicide mission to him.  And when they're caught, the peacekeepers won't be going after the most photographed man in District Twelve.  Katniss will be the one to be made an example.

But then he begins to think about the other side.  The idea becoming too tempting.  For once a few blissful moments where he doesn't feel like he's being watched.  Maybe they'd decide to stay out there.  Maybe they'd never come back.  He clings to these thoughts as improbable as they sound to him even now.  Revels in them.

"Okay," he says.

She knows of a few places where the fence sags, making it easy to pass through.  One isn't too far from Cray's house, and Katniss makes a point of flipping his door the bird before she ducks beneath the warped chain link.  The trees thicken almost instantly and they're quickly guarded behind their cover of the woods.

After about twenty minutes of hiking, the sun brightens between the thinning branches, and the forest opens up into a beautiful meadow.  The grass is still crisp and yellow from the winter, but there are patches of bright greenery heavy with buds that are waiting to blossom.

"It's early for strawberries, but sometimes I find them out here around this time of year," she says, guiding him around the base of the hill.

The ground is steep and he's out of breath by the time they reach the top.  The rocks are still warm from baking in the day's sun even as it begins to recede towards the horizon.  Tucked between the cracks, small vines with wide green leaves peek through.  Some are feathered with a few tiny flowers, while others hang low with a plump fruit that looks like blueberries.  

It's far too early for blueberries though.  The bakery only got blueberry preserves late in the summer, closer to when the fall began.  And when he leans in to inspect them, he notices how misshapen they are.  Not round like a marble, but lopsided and lumpy.

"What about these, Katniss?" he says, plucking one from its vine and holding it up for her.

She looks at it for only a second before swatting it out of his hand.  "Not those," she says.  "Skin as black as night will seal your fate," she recites from practiced memory.  "Lock you in slumber before it's too late."

"So they're poisonous?" he says, scrambling a few paces from the patch.

"That's putting it mildly.  Most poisonous fruits just cause mild irritation.  All it takes is one berry of nightlock and you'd be dead in a minute."

Peeta's eyes linger on the tempting fruit.  His tongue drags across his lower lip, imagining if the juices are tart or sweet.  If he'd even be able to tell before it was over.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, mesmerized by inviting, morbid thoughts.  He's somewhere far away from Panem and even these woods, only being drawn back by the sound of her voice.

"Look!"  Katniss calls to him.  She's crested the peak and climbed down the hill to where the land flattens out and overlooks a deep valley.  His eyes follow the path of her gaze.  Through the hills, the sun is starting to set.

Rays of orange light seem to shadow the land ahead and color the clouds in warm hues.  The thin stream that trickles through the valley reflects the image with glistening detail, enough to take his breath away.

He stumbles towards Katniss to get a better view.  He's seen the sunset a thousand times, but always over the apple tree in his back yard, or between the buildings in the Capitol skyline.  Sometimes on the train, he sees it begin over fields or through canyons, but they're moving so fast, it's over in a brief flash.

This sun is frozen in time.  A moment that could last forever like the paintings he used to craft when that was considered his "Victor talent."  He glances at Katniss then.  Studies the way the orange glow highlights new angles of her face he hadn't noticed before.  He wants to hold onto this moment too before it dips beneath the horizon.

He takes her hand into his and when she doesn't pull away, he kisses her.  Soft and tentative until he feels her arms snake around his neck and feels her sigh against his lips ever so slightly.  Then he loses himself.

He'll never be able to escape her.  He'll never be able to protect her.  He'll always be a goner when it comes to her.

"It's getting late," she says too soon.  "They sometimes turn the fence back on at night."

He doesn't care.  He's not ready to go back, but he follows her anyway and he doesn't say a word when she tells him she's going home instead of coming back to his house with him, and he pretends he doesn't notice when she doesn't show up the following Sunday or the Sunday after that.

He's being selfish; thinking that he loves her when she doesn't love him back.  It only puts her in danger, like Finnick's love for Annie and Dracaena's love for her sister.  He recalls Dracaena's warning.  His secret that he was desperate to hide.  

He has to let that secret go before it's too late.

* * *

For the 50th year of Coriolanus Snow's rule over Panem, a giant celebration is held.  The party is decadent with over 500 guests filling the lawns of the President's mansion.  Peeta plays the part of the perfectly charming guest to a T.  He entertains everyone who looks at him hungrily, collecting room numbers and times from the highest bidders.

"There's something different about you."  It's Dracaena, sipping a potent liqueur from a miniature champagne glass with an extravagantly drawn on arched eyebrow and an arm folded defiantly across her chest.

"What?  Am I glowing?" he asks flatly.

"Absolutely radiant," she says in the same tone.  "Have you become a man?"

He casts a side way glance in her direction and plucks a drink off a passing avox's tray.  "I think you know the answer to that."

She feigns innocence.  "You seem awfully broody.  Did you get your heart broken or something?"

"Is that what that is?  I thought it had to do with my life being ripped away from me and getting passed around like property."

"Oh no, that's old news.  This is different.  You seem angry," she tips back the rest of her drink.  "I like that."

"Thanks?"

"Be careful Peeta, you're teetering towards your breaking point," she says, flashing him one last smile before she rejoins President Snow on the main platform.

Peeta finds himself glaring across the room at the guest of honor, his hand gripping the glass in his hand so tightly, he's afraid it may shatter.

It's dusk the next day when Twelve's train platform comes into view.  For the Games the tributes are driven from the town square to the station, but that's only because they're too paralyzed with fear to walk.  Peeta remembers feeling like he was weighed down with cement against the brown velvet seat, stuffed in a cab between folds of Effie's ridiculously huge dress, which he used to hide from the other tribute, Levy Johnson's ghostly stare.

He didn't kill her, but it felt like he did.  It felt like he killed all twenty-three of them.  And the ten tributes he's failed to bring home since becoming a mentor.  Their blood is on his hands too.  Because he cowers to his oppressor.  He allows himself to play a piece in this game.

The shop lights are already dim as he trudges through town.  Electricity has been spotty lately -- not for him in Victor's Village, but in town where only one in ten windows seems to glow.  The Capitol has been hoarding supplies since some of the other districts began sending empty cargo trains.  Even though Twelve has been sending more coal than ever, they're still paying a price.  Finnick and Haymitch promise it'll be over soon, but to him, it can't end soon enough.

He climbs the steps to his house already shucking his light jacket before he reaches the door.  There's an extra pair of boots lined up along the wall and a familiar leather jacket hanging from the banister.

He feels his heart quicken, and when he spots her, curled up in the corner of the couch, he's struck with this unfamiliar sense of relief.  Like the weight that plagues his shoulders has been momentarily lifted in reprieve.

A celebration like the one last night for Snow would be required viewing for all of Panem.  Peeta's certain he appeared in some of the footage.  Caesar Flickerman probably interviewed him for longer than anyone, and he saw camera pods weaving through the main ballroom all night.  He wonders what all Katniss saw.

He stretches out to lie beside her, wrapping his arms around her sleeping form and resting his head in the curve of her waist.  She smelled like pine and dirt in the winter, but now that it's spring she smells like sap and that sharp scent of broken greens.  Like the woods.  Like freedom.  He inhales her deeply and tightens his hold, causing her to stir.

Her eyes are foggy when they meet his.  "You're back," she says and her mouth turns up slightly in recognition.

"You too."  She looks away.

"I saw you at the party," she says, her voice still groggy from sleep.

He feels her fingers tangle and comb through his hair and his eyelids grow heavy.  "And you decided you missed me?" 

"I didn't like it," she says, silencing herself when she realizes she doesn't have the right.  "I'm sorry..."

"You don't owe me anything," he murmurs against her hip.

"You don't either."  She touches a hand to his cheek, forcing him to look up at her.  "Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," he says quickly before she can take it back.  "Always."

She rolls onto her back and he shifts his weight for her to open her legs to him.  He doesn't know where to begin, he wants all of her at once.  His hand moves from her belly to her neck, bunching her thin cotton blouse between his fingers.  He pushes aside the fabric to reveal her underclothes.  A simple tank top with elastic straps.  Nothing like the complex lacy garments the women wear in the Capitol.

He cups one of her breasts, weighing it in his hand, cupping his palm around the mound until it fills it perfectly.  She covers his hand with hers and gives a slight nod, working their hands in tandem over the tightening peak.  He muffles his groan against her bare collarbone, taking the opportunity to taste her.  Hints of salt and lye from her unscented soap.

"You're perfect," he says, dragging his lips across her skin.

She plants her feet on the sofa to cage his hips between her knees.  He's already hard but his cock stiffens painfully when she swivels against him.  He aches to be inside her.  To bury himself so deep, he'll never find his way out.

He thrusts against her center.  Fabric to fabric to fabric to fabric.  She mewls, fingernails fighting through his shirt.  He finds the button to her pants and unfastens them, smoothing his fingers over her dampened sex through her underwear.

"Peeta," she gasps.

His eyes snap to meet hers.  The gray pools are heavy with lust as they were the last time, but the uncertainty that clouded her gaze before is gone.  She came back to him.  She keeps coming back to him.

He's tired of questioning everyone's motives.  He's ready to believe that this could be real.

Their pants and underwear are still around their ankles when he enters her.  The room silent save for her sharp grunt which quickly wanes to pleasure.

In the morning, when he wakes, for the first time he can remember, his bed is warm.  Her black hair is fanned across the discarded white pillow beside him, while her head rests against his chest, right over his heart.

He's afraid that any movement will disturb her so he stills his breath, focusing on the ceiling to maintain this one simple task.  She stirs anyway, and rolls to the other side of the mattress, uncurling her tired limbs like a cat as she wakes.  He catches her hip before she can get far, letting the sheet fall away in the process.

He grins and flicks his thumb over her pebbled nipple, then bends forward to kiss her quickly.  If he were allowed to be happy, this is what it would be like.

"I'm never getting married," she warns him, her languid smile still dreamy.  "Or having children or falling in love, none of it."

He nods.  Not in this world.  Not with the odds he has.

"Me either," he says.  Her smile sobers, his as well.  This is all they can have.  There's no future beyond this bed.  Not as long as the Capitol casts its shadow on everything he cares about.  He wants it all back.

He's going to get it back.

He rolls on his back to stare at the ceiling.  "Glad we're on the same page."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Jessa for pre-reading and for listening to me babble about my crazy ideas.


	3. Chapter 3

Katniss wakes to the gentle breeze through the window. It's Spring, but the morning still carries a brisk chill that makes her shiver, especially when the sun has yet to rise. She draws the blanket to her chin to capture the warmth that radiates from the other side of the bed.

Something's not right though, because suddenly the heat is stifling, and when she reaches blindly across the too wide mattress, she finds burning, clammy skin.

Her eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, and through the vague twilight she can only make out a few of his features. "Peeta?" she says, nudging his shoulder slightly to rouse him.

He thrashes violently and murmurs in incoherent gibberish. His brow is glistening from a thin sheen of sweat, and although his eyes are still closed, his face is pinched tightly, as if trapped in a painful thought.

"Peeta!" she says again, this time more urgently.

He wakes with a start, his breath ragged and his eyes flickering rapidly as he becomes reacquainted with consciousness. He looks at her momentarily like she's a stranger, then his face softens with recognition.

She places her hand over his to act as an anchor to reality. "Are you okay?" she says. His skin still feels fevered, but she doesn't think he's sick. In fact, this scenario is all too familiar. "Does it happen often?"

"Huh?" he says, more lucid now.

"The nightmares."

"It was nothing," he says, scrubbing a tired hand over his face. He untangles himself from the blankets and moves to the cracked window to open it wider. "It's just hot, is all." He braces both hands against the sill and stands there with his back to her.

He's only a couple of yards away, but it may as well be a hundred miles. Neither one of them are in this room anymore, both caught in some horrid memory. 

"I always feel like I'm drowning," she admits, then covers her mouth before she can say too much. She hugs her legs to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. She feels small and vulnerable in this position, like she did the day her father died. "It's like I'm trapped underwater but it's too dark to see, and the earth is so heavy I can't move."

She closes her eyes when she can feel the weight of her tears along the brim. Images of cramped elevators, crumbling rocks, and mens' desperate struggle flash in a cruel show she's seen a thousand times before. Her throat burns from the memory of helplessly screaming "Run!" for only ghosts to hear. 

She shakes away the thoughts, and focuses on Peeta again. Her dreams are only figments of her imagination. Silly, selfish things. She never felt the weight of the mine collapsing like her father. Never saw the inside of the arena like Peeta did. 

"You dream about the Games, don't you?"

When she was young, she used to be so afraid of being reaped that she wouldn't sleep for weeks before the names were drawn. As she grew older all she could think about was what she would do if Prim were picked, and whether she'd be brave enough to raise her hand and volunteer. Now her biggest fear is that she can't.

He looks at her from over his shoulder and then turns back to the window. "Sometimes," he says.

"I can't imagine how terrifying it must have been."

His chest rises and falls with one heavy breath.

"The Games were the easy part," he says with an edge of unexpected humor. She doesn't know how killing someone could ever be considered easy, but she's never had to face that sort of survival.

"What are your nightmares about then?" she asks carefully.

He bows his head, his grip tightening around the frame of the window until his knuckles turn white. She regrets asking because now she knows his mind is trapped in that place again.

"My nightmares are about losing what's important to me," he says.

She can't explain what compels her, but suddenly she's standing beside him, her hands settling tentatively on his back. He clutches her hand from over his shoulder, holding on firmly like she's his sole tether.

There's a promise behind his embrace. That he won't lose her. And against her better judgment, she knows that she won't leave him. The pull he has on her is too strong to ignore. This is getting dangerous. 

She lets out a weak laugh in hopes of diffusing the growing tension. "I know how you feel," she says nervously.

He turns to face her. "Yeah?"

The look in his eye catches her off guard and she begins to panic even more. "My sister, Prim," she elaborates.

"Of course," he says with a smile that seems to strain against every muscle.

Katniss moves to sit on the edge of the bed and he follows. "It's her last year in the Reaping," she says. 

"Her name's only in there what? Seven times? The odds are still in her favor."

That's what Katniss always tells herself. Her name was in the bowl 28 times her last year of eligibility, and Gale's 42. Prim's got the odds of a merchant kid and they never get chosen. Except for Peeta. He had five entries among thousands, a fact that she tries her best to ignore, but it still lingers, uninvited.

"I hope so," she says. "I'm sorry. I was the one who was supposed to be making you feel better."

"You did."

"Now you're just being nice to me," she says. He cracks his usual Peeta smile, and although it sets her at ease, she can't help but notice how vacant it always is. "We should talk about something else. Something less depressing."

"Less depressing? You've met me, right? This is about as sunshine and rainbows as it gets."

"That's not true," she says. She knew Peeta before the Games, not as well as others, but she knew him. He was carefree and charismatic and she still sees hints of that boy when he accidentally lets his guard down. She only sees it because around him, the walls she's so carefully crafted her entire life begin to crumble too. "Tell me something about yourself. A good thing. What's your favorite song?"

He gazes at her for a long beat, the corner of his mouth twitching with the hitch of laughter in his breath. "The Valley Song," he says. 

"The Valley Song? Why's that?'"

"Because it's the first song I ever heard you sing."

She eyes him skeptically. Since her father died, she rarely sings -- unless it's to comfort Prim, which she hasn't had to do in years. She can't recall a single instance where she's sang around Peeta.

"I don't sing," she says.

"You do, I remember," he says, leaning back to rest on his elbows. "It was the first day of school when we were five years old. The teacher asked us who knew the Valley Song and your hand shot straight up."

She lays down, stretching across the mattress until she's reached the pillows. "You're making that up."

"I'm not," he says with a slightly exasperated chuckle. His fingers brush her thighs, right below where her sleep shirt rides up. "You were wearing a red plaid dress and your hair was in two braids instead of one. I remember my father pointing you out while we were lining up and he told me that when your father sang, the birds stopped to listen. I didn't believe him, so when you volunteered, I paid extra close attention."

Her chest tightens and she feels like she's drowning, but she refuses to come up for air. She can recall enough details to know that the story is true. The dress. Music assembly. And it was true about her father too, nothing was more soothing than the nights when he'd sing her folk songs until she'd fallen asleep.

"And did the birds stop singing?"

"I haven't heard one since," he says, replacing his fingers with his mouth to kiss the inside of her thigh.

She shudders, the quake vibrating to the tips of her fingers which curl to anchor in his hair. "You remember that?" she says breathlessly.

"I remember everything about you."

Her body unravels when the heat of his mouth cups her through her underwear, the cotton dampening between his tongue and her want for him.

 _I love you_ , she wants to shouts, but instead she swallows her words and chews her bottom lip between her teeth until it bleeds. This isn't supposed to happen. She isn't supposed to feel this way.

"Don't say things like that," she says.

He sits up and sighs. "I know, I'm sorry," he says. He lies down beside her and brushes her hair off her shoulder. "It's just getting hard -- to pretend I don't need you."

She kisses him then, because if they keep on talking, they'll both say something stupid. Because in the morning he'll be on a train to the Capitol to entertain the highest bidder however they see fit. And it hurts more and more, so selfishly, every time he leaves, knowing that she has to share him. How his smile seems to fade little by little when he returns, and all she wants to do is protect him, and to love him until that boy she once knew returns.

In the morning, her stomach fills with dread as she watches him pack his overnight bag. "You don't have to go, you know," she says.

When he looks at her, he looks so tired, and she feels too guilty to push it further. So she sits there with her knees hugged against her chest and watches silently until it's time for him to leave

"You can stay here if you want, while I'm gone," he tells her as he steps towards the door.

She scoffs at the idea, it's his house, not her's -- she only sleeps here. But then she notices it. Her heavy jacket draped across a chair from before the seasons changed. Her shoes mixed with his on the rack by the door. That's not all though, upstairs there's a drawer in his dresser that now holds only her things, and the kitchen is full of sweets from the Capitol that Peeta never touches, but always brings a box back because he knows how much she loves them. She's even started stashing her favorite utility knife here, since none of Peeta's fancy knives can skin a rabbit the same way.

She wraps her arms around him, enveloping herself in his scent, hoping it will linger until he returns. "I should go home," she says, but a minute passes before she let's go.

It's still dusk when she leaves, the sun still hanging low on the horizon as it pushes through the haze of clouds which always seem to settle in the valley this time of morning. The town is asleep, and she feels as alone as being three miles past the fence in the thick of the woods.

There are signs of life in the Seam, and she feels a tug at her lips when she spots Gale making his way up the hill towards her. It's Sunday. Hunting day. At least it used to be, she can hardly remember the last time they went -- back when they were kids, maybe, when their names were in the reaping bowl a couple dozen times a piece.

"Fence is the other way," she calls out, caught in the wave of nostalgia.

He flashes a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Not today, Catnip."

"You're missing out, the pickings are good these days."

"I bet," he says with that gruff sort of chuckle of his that says about a thousand other things

She tries to shake his tone, but it's impossible, an icy chill has settled permanently between them. "You headed to the Hob?"

"They extended my hours in the mines again," he says, slipping his black stained hands into the pockets of his worn slacks.

"Oh."

"Third time this month," he says. "And in the summer no less, it's not like they have to heat their homes."

"Strange," she says cautiously.

"Yeah, it's like they're trying to work us to death. Tire us out. But I'm sure your boyfriend knows all about that."

She narrows her eyes. "Why would he?" 

He gives her a pointed look, and all civility is officially lost. She's done trying to appease his sour mood.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.

He frowns, jaw clenching. "Right," he says. His eyes flick towards her game bag hanging heavily on her shoulder. "Good trade today? What's the going rate for cinnamon raisin these days?"

She looks away shamefully.

"Getting into bed with him is the same as getting into bed with the Capitol. You see that, right?"

"Are you being serious?" she bites back, the anger blooming in her chest pure fire now. "You think he hates Panem any less? He was in the arena!" _He's practically a slave_ , she wants to add, but the words die on her tongue. She breathes deeply to settle her nerves. "We're all getting by the best we can, Gale."

He nods wordlessly. It's as much of an apology one can expect from him.

"Why don't you go? Live past the fence like you always wanted," she says quietly.

"Aidy's pregnant."

Pregnant. Katniss had forgotten they were even married. She feels her hands turn ice cold at the news. 

This could have been her life. When she was 16, it was sort of expected that she and Gale would end up together, but at eighteen, she refused his proposal. A year later he was breaking bread over a flame with Aidy Thomas.

She touches her stomach, feeling sick. She should be happy for him. She never wanted children, but Gale did. _What if your baby is reaped?_ is all she can think though.

His two brothers are still of reaping age, and his youngest sister Posy just turned eleven. Gale will spend most of his life worrying about somebody's name in the reaping bowl.

But what's the alternative? Is Katniss's life really much better? 

"I'll take that as a congratulations," he says wryly.

She blinks a few times to shake herself from the trance. "Of course."

She doesn't remember the rest of the walk home. She's walked the trails of the Seam thousands of times -- knows them like the back of her hand, but today she's lost. An outsider in her own home.

Katniss is relieved when she finally pushes her way through her front door and drops her canvas game bag on the table. She loosens the drawstring, pulling the opening wide to unload the tray of cinnamon rolls, she watched Peeta prepare the night before. Warm out of the oven, they were the sweetest thing she'd ever tasted.

Prim enters the kitchen, her cheeks still flushed from a scrub in the wash basin. She fastens the last few buttons of the blue dress that Katniss used to wear to the Reaping. The color has faded nearly to gray, and the fabric is paper thin, but it's still the nicest dress they have in their home.

"Katniss," Prim says, sounding surprised. "I didn't think you'd be here."

"I brought you breakfast," Katniss says, sliding the tray towards her sister.

Prim eyes them warily, then hitches the strap to her bag higher on her shoulder, ignoring the proffered treat. "I ate at the Jepsen's this morning while we were treating their uncle."

Katniss doesn't know why this stings, but she doesn't let the feeling linger, and pushes the thoughts away with a too bright smile. "Where are you off to?"

"Cooper's," Prim says, looking away somewhat guiltily. Cooper, the shoemaker's boy. Katniss has seen Prim hanging around the shop while she was making trades, but she never thought much of it. 

"Yeah? He seems nice."

"We're getting married, Katniss," she says abruptly. "After the Reaping and the Games end this year."

"Oh," is all Katniss can muster.

"I didn't know how to tell you. I know how you feel about these things."

"I'm happy for you, of course I am."

"I'm happy for you too," Prim says, her gaze sliding to the tray of sweets. "You and Peeta."

"We're just friends," Katniss says out of habit.

"Still. I'm happy you found someone. I worry about you sometimes. That you'll end up like Mom."

Katniss looks hollowly at the wall that separates the kitchen from their shared bedroom. She takes a deep breath and finds enough strength to smile. "Here, take these to the Cooper's," she say, pushing the tray of cinnamon rolls into Prim's hands. "I'm sure they already love you, but it never hurts to butter them up."

"Thanks," Prim says, and then she's out the door.

The house is silent. Through the window over the sink, Katniss watches as children chase each other up the ash covered path, but the sound of their laughter never reaches her.

She turns to the stove and puts a kettle on the burner, filling a mug with tea leaves when it begins to boil.

The mug of tea perched on her mother's bedside table is cold when Katniss replaces it. Her mother stirs and stretches groggily. "I must have dozed off," she says, pulling herself up to lean against her pillow. "It was an early morning call."

"Prim told me," Katniss says, handing her mother the steaming cup. "Are you getting up?"

Her mother sighs and sets the mug aside. "Maybe in a little while," she says. "I think I'll sleep a bit more. I always feel so exhausted."

"Right," Katniss says. "I'm going into town."

"Will you be home later?"

She looks around the cramped and cluttered room. Her mother's hastily packed medical bag spilling across the dresser. Prim's work clothes draped over the edge of the wash basin still in need of a good scrub.

"I don't know," she says.

* * *

Her chin rises and falls along with his chest as he takes another breath. The angle constantly changing while she studies his face. It's late afternoon, her favorite time of day, when the sun has crested and the warm light is rich with shadows.

She admires the way the sunshine bathes over him. The breeze picking up just enough to lift his hair from his forehead, threads of gold dancing in the wind before drifting slowly back to earth. 

The corner of his mouth twitches as he falls deeper into sleep, his cheek pinching into a dimple that quickly vanishes when his frown returns, the stitch moving to the worried ridge between his eyebrows. His head rolls to the side, his neck stretching long.

That's when she sees it. A mark behind his ear that hadn't been there before. It's only a faint discoloration. A small pink bruise in the shape of a strawberry just beneath his earlobe. He flinches when she touches it, and that's when she realizes what it is, and where it came from.

She pulls away roughly, crawling back on her hands to add a few feet of grass between them.

She hadn't meant to wake him, but he stirs at her absence and his eyes are already opening.

"Go back to sleep," she says.

"Why try to dream of your face when I can just look at it?" he says with a lazy grin.

Katniss rolls her eyes and busies herself by fidgeting with the empty basket from their earlier picnic.

"Come on, that was smooth," he says with a chuckle.

"Oh yeah, definitely," she says flatly, but her words are more biting than she intended.

"What's wrong?"

She looks at where his hand is smoothing over his neck. Her thoughts flash with images of the Capitol. Of beautiful naked women writhing beneath him. What it felt like for him when they left that stain on his flesh. Her ears burn with anger.

"Hey, what is it?" he prods again.

"Why do you do it?" she snaps. She's answered only with confusion so she asks it again. "Why do you do it? These trips to the Capitol. You've never told me. You always say that you're dangerous but you've never said why."

His face hardens, his easy smile a distant memory. "It's not safe to tell you."

"It's not safe to be out here either," she argues, nodding towards the empty valley beyond the fence where they've escaped for the afternoon. "At least nobody's listening out here."

"You are," he says.

"Of course I am, I'm the one who asked."

He sits up on his elbows. It's obvious that he's stalling when he begins to fuss over the hard ground beneath him.

"Is it because of the Games?" she prods. "Because you're a mentor -- is that how you get sponsors?"

"No, no," he says dismissively, but his eyes darken.  "Nobody wastes their money on my tributes."

"If it's not for the money and it's not for the Games, then why?" she asks, her tone growing desperate. She takes a deep breath. Reminds herself that she shouldn't care. This isn't a relationship. He doesn't owe her anything.

She begins to tug at the flowers around her knees, plucking them from their roots one after the other.

It's quiet for what feels like forever. "Does it bother you?" he finally says. 

She swallows her pride. "I try not to let it," she says quietly. "Sometimes," she admits. Her fingers fidget with the stems gathered in her lap. She chains them together stem to bud, stem to bud. "I know it makes you miserable though."

"It's not that -- " he says. "It's just sex. It doesn't mean anything to me. Katniss, what kills me? It's not being able to have this." He gestures between them until she understands. "You're very important to me Katniss, and if something ever happened to you? I'd never forgive myself."

"What would happen to me?"

"I don't know," he says cryptically. His face turns somber as he combs his finger through the grass. "You'd be arrested for poaching and turned into an avox, probably. A few years ago they would have had you reaped, but you're too old for that now. They know everything about us, and they'll do whatever it takes to keep their Victor's in line."

Katniss thinks about the Games. Not of the violent weapons or the brutal ways each tribute meets their end, but of the meticulous way each move of the Game is crafted. From the layout of the arena, to timing and location of the feast, to the mutts engineered specifically to compliment the remaining players greatest fears.

"It was easier before --" he continues. "I mean I hated it, I've always hated it, but it was easier when nobody knew."

He shakes his head. "I was sixteen the first time I got an invitation -- after one of those fancy banquets, and I thought Haymitch was joking when he said they'd have the bakery burned down if I didn't go. He, uh, he had a girl, if you can believe it." He clears his throat. "I was so disgusted with myself after. It's funny -- well it isn't, but you'd think having to kill a bunch of kids would be the lowest point in your life. And it is. I just didn't think I could hate myself anymore than I already did. So the next day, I was back in Twelve for the Fall Festival, and I just sat there glowering through the entire thing, and I overhear my mother muttering to my father, 'Is he going to be this moody all the time?'" He shakes his head again and let's out a humorless chuckle. "When they look at me, all they see is some rich, tortured killer... that's all anyone has seen since I came back. And I've let them, because it was easier that way. And then you came along."

Her fingers still around the flower stems.

"I sold my soul to get out of the arena, and I sold my body to survive after. They have everything. And being around you, it makes me want to take it back. But the more I want that, the more they own me."

He looks down at his shoes and toes off some dirt from the bottom of his sole. "I wouldn't blame you if you left," he says. 

"I know," she says. She finishes her string of flowers, looping off the ends to form a ring, and then places it on his head like a crown. "When we were kids, you always reminded me of a dandelion. Every year when I saw the first one of the season, I knew Spring was here and and that better days were coming."

He picks at one of the yellow flowers, coating the tips of his fingers with the sweet scent of pollen. "Is that what a dandelion means?"

"Faithfulness, actually," she says and the words hang between them, heavy and ominous. She tries to smile to lighten the mood.  "Happiness too, so I guess it's kind of fitting -- better days." She snatches the crown off his head. "I only pick them because they're good for eating though."

"Ew," he laughs. "You can't eat that!  It was in my hair."

"And I picked it up right off the ground too!" she says.

He reaches for the crown and when she holds it out further from his grasp, he takes the opportunity to roll on top of her, pinning her body to the ground with his. "That was mine," he says.

She writhes beneath him, gasping around laughter as she tries to regain the upper hand. It's impossible though. He's twice her size and he barely has to make any effort to hold her. All he does is stare down at her, his eyes glinting with reverie.

"Why me?" he says softly. "You'd be so much better off without me."

Her eyes dart away, but quickly return to his. "But then you'd be alone."

He smiles sadly. "I'd be okay."

"I'd be alone too," she admits.

"That's not true."

Her hands find the buttons on his shirt, unfastening them then fastening them again. "My sister's eighteen now, she's got her own life. My mother too. Even my trades in town are worthless these days. No one needs me. No one but you."

"Katniss," he warns.

She brings his face to hers, kissing him deeply. When he pulls away she's tangled the dandelion crown back into his hair. "You're mine," she says fiercely.

"I'm yours."

Her eyes return to the mark on his neck and her brazenness grows. 

Peeta's eyes widen in recognition when her thumb brushes over the offending mark. “I’m sorry…” he begins.

“Don’t,” she says. She brings her lips to his ear and nips the skin between her teeth until only her mark is left behind. But the burn of his hiss lingers in her eardrum, and she wonders if he made that same sound of pleasure the first time. It fuels her, and she bites him again on a clean patch of skin. She wants to own every sound, every touch. To tattoo her memory everywhere so he'll be haunted forever.

She remembers their first night together and his gentle plea with every touch and every kiss. He needs her.

"Peeta," she murmurs in his ear.

His entire body shudders above her as his hands grow more insistent beneath her blouse.

"What do you want, Peeta?" she says, her fingers working at the button of his slacks.

He groans when she reaches beneath his underclothes to stroke his length. "You, Katniss," he says shakily. "Please, I want you."

She pushes his pants down his thighs and goes to work on her own. "You can have me," she says, guiding him toward her entrance.

"Fuck, I want you so bad," he grunts, their pelvis's slapping together as he moves eagerly inside of her. "I've always wanted you, I always want you, it drives me crazy but I never want to stop."

He's never been inside her without a condom and there's something exciting about that. That there isn't a single thing that could stand between them. She feels empowered for not being so cautious for once. By giving herself to him completely, in spite of the danger that could come along with it. The Capitol has owned her too, in a way, but not in this moment. She's giving herself a choice. She's his. She needs him too.

And so she clings to him desperately, matching every fervent thrust until she feels his release, sending her over the edge along with him.

His weight shifts from his elbows to lay solely on her chest and she struggles to keep up with her labored breaths. He’s still inside her, his cock pulsing between her fluttering walls as her orgasm ebbs.

His face is buried in the crook of her neck and he turns his head enough to meet her eye. There’s an odd calm between them as they float back to reality, but then the shock quickly settles in.

Peeta blinks rapidly as he pulls out of her and she can feel the slick remnants of semen on the inside of her thigh.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” He pauses and scrubs a hand over his face. “There’s a pill in the Capitol, I can get you one — to be sure.”

She feels tears burning at the corners of her eyes. There are a handful of herbal concoctions she knows that prevent pregnancy, and that’s what she should be thinking about right now. But instead, for the briefest of moments, she revels in the excitement of carrying Peeta’s child. Of starting a family like Prim plans to do, or like Gale already has.

But that future can never exist for her, not in Panem. And for the first time, she hates it.

  


  


* * *

  


  


"You're building a reputation you know?" Dracaena says, lifting her thumb from the pipe and inhaling deeply. She's propped up on some pillows leaning against the headboard and she toes his listless body at the foot of the bed to make sure he's still paying attention. A curl of smoke escapes her black painted lips, swirling around her face like a mask concealing her features. 

"I thought we've already established my reputation," he says, waving off the pipe when she offers it to him.

She takes another hit and puffs a cloud of smoke in his face. "We had," she says, slinking back to rest against the pillows. "But now it seems your customers are having such a ravenous time throwing back cocktails and sampling pharmaceuticals with you they can't even stay awake for the grand finale."

"If they're not awake there is no grand finale," he says pointedly.

"Really?" she says dryly. "Imagine that."

"They pay for my company, they get my company."

"They get your company and you don't have to get your dick wet."

"So?"

She looks at him dangerously, the pipe balanced delicately between her lips as she takes a flame to the bowl. When she blows the smoke through her nose and mouth it looks like she's breathing fire. She crawls down the length of the bed, pausing to kneel beside him and cage his body with her arms. "Are we going to fuck?" she says simply.

He sets his jaw and forces himself to hold her gaze. "If you want to."

She hovers over him for a long moment. Her lips dipping mere inches from his. Enough for him to taste the smoke on his tongue. Her smile is sly. Challenging. Waiting for him to call his own bluff.

"I don't feel like it," she finally says, retreating to her nest at the headboard.

"You're the boss," he says, shrugging a shoulder and turning his gaze up to the bellowing canopy overhead.

"Am I?" she says, but by her tone he knows this game isn't over. "This is a cute little power play. Did you take it straight out of the President's handbook? Granted, your poison is a lot more fun and a lot less lethal." She finds her pipe again and flicks her lighter with a few sparks.

Peeta's eyes snap to her curiously and he sits up to pluck the pipe from her hand. "Pardon?"

She pouts at him and folds her arms over her chest. "Do you victors even talk? This has been prime gossip for years! No wonder this little rebellion of yours never gets off the ground."

Now it's Peeta's turn to play coy. He takes a hit from her pipe and places it on the vanity out of her reach then rejoins her on the bed.

He lies beside her and folds his hands behind his head. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says coolly. 

"This quiet little rebellion of yours isn't so subtle," she says. "And the sympathizers you have here are growing impatient."

"Hypothetically."

She rolls her eyes. "Of course."

"And what would these sympathizers suggest?"

"I think you already know," she says, and Peeta nods for her to elaborate. "Let's see. You take your enemy into an intimate setting. One where they're vulnerable, where they can feel safe."

"Like a cushy hotel suite?"

Her glazed eyes brighten. "Like a cushy hotel suite," she affirms.  "Then you offer refreshments, something to help them relax, and there's no reason to doubt you because you take the first sip."

"But it's poison."

"Not to you. You know the dosage. You have the antidote. You've built a tolerance. Now they're drugged and you have the power."

"What's the point of poison? Why get tricky? He'll be dead no matter what."

"Plausible deniability." She stands and crosses the room to where a crystal set of carafes and glasses sit. She uncorks a bottle with amber liquid and divides it into two tumblers. She hands one to him and holds onto the other. "Change the setting. Some place high profile. Witnesses are the key. You share a drink -- a toast." She clinks their glasses and takes a large sip from her cup, Peeta looks at her hesitantly and then follows suit. "You're dead," she says with a content grin. "But everyone else is mysteriously alive."

"If it's so easy, then why haven't you done it already?" 

"Because he's been building a tolerance to the stuff for years. Pouring poison from the Capitol into his cup is as good as handing him a glass of water."

"How do you know all of this? Maybe he's not drinking the poison at all, maybe he's leaving it out of his."

"Trust me, I'm the one who pours the drinks, and if I had it my way, the bastard would have been long dead. But that's all a part of the game for him, giving me a weapon when he knows there's nothing I can do with it."

Peeta drains the rest of his glass, letting the last of the liquid burn his throat. "What does this have to do with me? I can't help you."

"I watched your Games, Peeta. You're smart. One of the smartest tributes the Games has ever seen. Most people remember you for being handsome, but you're more than that. Fringe districts don't get invited into the career pack, but you did. You didn't waste your time rallying the little guys to unite and fight. You entered the belly of the beast and you stabbed it in the heart. You broke up the career pack and convinced them to kill each other without lifting a weapon. Well the game isn't over yet and I'm offering you access back into the Arena. What are you going to do about it?"

Peeta feels his pulse spike. Feels every nerve ending come to life. His mouth feels like sandpaper and he struggles to swallow. "You want me to kill him?"

He can hear the clock counting down, feel that platform beneath his feet. A young girl let's out a shriek signifying the start of the bloodbath. He has to get out of here. He has to run.

"No. I want to kill him, and I want you to tell me how to do it."

* * *

Peeta stares at the chess pieces sprawled across the board before him, his finger ghosting the length of the marble bishop.  


Katniss chews on the back of her fingernail as her eyes scan for possible moves. She brightens and smiles slyly before capturing his Queen with her rook. "Easy," she says, an unmistakable pride beaming in her tone. "What do you have to say to that, master strategist?"

He hesitates. He already knows which move to play, it's the one he lured her into a moment before. He glances at the discarded pieces lined up beside the board. Wonders how many moves he could have shaved from the game. He hasn't even moved his King.

_End it, just end it,_

he tells himself. His hand is shaking and he steadies it on the bishop before sliding it forward. "Checkmate," he mumbles.

Her smile falters. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding to convince himself. "You're terrible at this," he teases.

"That's not true," she says. "You're just impossible to read."

"Oh is that it?"

"Yes! You kept tapping on that piece! I thought you were trying to trick me."

"No, I just have an awfully easy tell."

Katniss scowls at him. "I want to play again," she says, setting all of the pieces back in their place as he does the same.  

Peeta nods at her, encouraging her to make the first move.  

She picks up a pawn, her mouth twisted in defiant determination, and instead of setting it one or two spaces ahead, she pushes it across the board and plows through his own row of pawns to capture the King.

"Checkmate," she says, sounding rather pleased with herself.

"What was that?"

"Brute force."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "That's cheating," he says.  "You can't do that."

She sits back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest, her eyebrow lifted in challenge. "The pawns are revolting. They're tired of tending the kingdom's crops and know where the queen keeps her dagger."

"Actually," he says, snatching the piece away before she can take it. "If your pawns are plotting an uprising, it's your kingdom that's going to fall," he says holding out his hand for her king.

She narrows her eyes. "It was a diversion," she decides. "Your king thinks his enemy is tied up in civil war so he moves his forces to protect from larger threats in the South," she continues, swapping his pieces so the pawns line his closest rank.

He begins to weigh the possible moves, and the way he can out maneuver her defensive line, but it doesn't take him long to realize the results. "They're all still going to die," he says.

"What?"

He starts pushing his pieces off the board until only his king remains.

"Peeta what are you talking about?"

"It's getting late," he says, rising from his chair. "I should get to sleep."

Katniss nods somberly and follows him up the steps.

In his dreams he's back in the Game, in an arena that's a sprawling chess board. Peeta's platform is near the middle, in a pawn's space, and when he turns around, he sees that he's standing before President Snow. His throat within Peeta's grasp.

He lunges for him, but another piece slides between them. Peeta stumbles back towards the edge of his platform when he recognizes the person standing on it. Marcus Cato, the male District 2 tribute from his Games. Peeta's last kill.

He looks for another way out, but he's surrounded by other tributes. Claudius Templesmith counts down to zero and the tributes run toward the cornucopia behind him. Peeta stays focused on President Snow's piece though. He hurdles toward it, a space away when another platform separates him.

This time he's in a field of victor's, too busy trading secrets to pay attention to the enemy before him. He spots Dracaena at Snow's side. She nods at him, just enough for Peeta to take the last dive. He's so close. So close. But a final hurdle sprouts between them, and Snow has Katniss now, with a knife to her throat.

"Peeta? Peeta!"

He's shaking. Someone's shaking him. His eyes open to Katniss's worried face.

"Wake up, please. It's just a dream," she pleads.

He struggles to catch his breath. There's light streaming through the window, and he cringes, knowing that it's morning. He's due back in the Capitol today.

"I've got to go," he says, but Katniss grips his arm to still him.

"You should stay," she says.

He heaves a heavy sigh. She knows that he can't. How much he hates to refuse her.

The train departs in a few hours, but it's not like anyone will personally be waiting for him to climb aboard. They stopped sending an escort for him a long time ago. Good behavior, he supposes. So what if he doesn't go? Will anyone miss him? Could he stay out of this whole mess for just one day?

He doesn't want to fight. He never asked for any of this. All he's ever wanted was her. And she's here, asking for him to stay.

He sinks back onto the mattress and rests his head on the pillow beside hers. "Okay," he says.

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like. If there were no Games?” he says in a brief moment of insanity. Dracaena has been whispering too much nonsense in his ear for his own good.

“No,” Katniss says before he’s even gotten all the words out.

His smile crumbles and he feels like he’s been punched in the gut. He wonders what he was expecting her to say. The reaction he was fishing for. He presses his lips together and nods.

“I can’t afford to think like that,” she says to appease him.

“But what if it could change?” he says a bit too hastily.

She looks at him, her eyes critical as they study his face. “Peeta, what are you talking about?”

 _I’m going to assassinate the president_. He clenches his jaw. That’s insane. “Nothing,” he says.

She nods, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t believe him. They don’t talk about it again.

The bed is cold when his eyes open again. He looks out the window to find the sun high in the sky. It must be afternoon by now. 

Downstairs, Katniss is sorting items from her hunting bag along the counter, humming a smooth melody while she works. He's caught off guard by how normal it all feels. How it looks like she belongs here in this house that's always felt foreign to him. For a moment he allows himself to pretend that it can stay this way. That he can balance this one with the life he keeps in the Capitol.

He knows that if he follows the path that Dracaena has set for him, he won't be coming back.

Katniss smiles warmly at him when she notices him watching. She smiles warmly when she notices him watching. "You're awake," she says.  


"Sorry, I didn't mean to sleep so long," he says sheepishly. "What's all this?"

"I did some trading yesterday, but haven't had a chance to go through it. Found some funny things."

"Yeah? Like what?" 

"Well Sae had this stew yesterday with these salty greens. They looked like they might have been pickled, but don't taste it," she says, revealing a dark tangled bundle. "I thought you might want to try baking with it."

Peeta can smell the ocean at the sight of it. Feel the sand sink around his feet as the foamy waves of District Four crash across the shore, leaving tangles of seaweed in its wake.

"And there was lots of fabrics too," she says, ruffling through a pile of folded linens. "I thought Prim might want to make a wedding dress with it."

District Eight.

"You found all of this in town?" he asks a bit too eagerly.

She looks at him, worry creasing into a frown. "Yes, there was some wheat too, but I traded it with your father. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," he says, his eyes flitting towards his neighbor's house. He squelches the quiet glimmer of hope before it can betray him. "I'm going to check in on Haymitch."

He marches briskly across the lawn in long strides, and only knocks once before bursting through the door. He cringes at the musky smell, but it doesn't slow his pace towards the kitchen. "Haymitch, wake up," he orders. "We need to air you out."

His mentor mutters a few obscenities as Peeta drags him to his feet and ushers him towards the front door.

"Why do I have a bunch of smuggled district goods on my dining room table?"

"Wouldn't the smuggler you share a bed with be the better person to be asking right now?" he replies gruffly.

"Haymitch, we've got trade between districts?"

"Well, since rations go through the Capitol, and we're trying to cut the Capitol out of the equation..." he says evasively.

"And what about when the Games start next week. What happens then?"

Haymitch lets out a heavy sigh. "Nothing," he says. "Kid, we're still in the early stages. A few rebels in every district maybe, but we don't have an army. These things take time."

"Time? How many more children have to be reaped for us to do something?" He looks around, lowers his voice to a hasty whisper even though no one else can hear. "I've got a contact in the Capitol. I can get in and end this real quick."

Haymitch doesn't say anything for a while. "Weren't you supposed to be on a train this morning?" He says. Now it's Peeta's turn to hold his tongue. Haymitch's eyes flit towards Peeta's house, where they both know Katniss is hidden inside. "You know what you're doing?"

Peeta sets his jaw and stands tall. "I do," he says.

When they part, Peeta doesn't go home. Instead he finds himself heading towards the gap in the fence and sneaking beneath it. Finds himself hurdling through the trees and over the soft forest floor until he reaches the plateau over the valley, and the patch of dark lumpy berries.

* * *

The vial of berry juice is heavy in his breast pocket as Peeta steps onto the Reaping stage and takes the seat beside Haymitch. He wonders if the juice loses potency over time. He should have taken the whole plant. Or asked Katniss about it, at least. He's put enough burden on her as it is. No need to have her worrying after him as he goes on a suicide mission to the Capitol.

He's so caught up in thoughts of poison that he doesn't even hear Effie Trinket recite the Treaty of Treason that everyone knows by heart. No, it's when he hears the name _Primrose Everdeen_ that the world around him stops.

His eyes find Katniss's in the crowd as she struggles helplessly against the railing that separates the audience form eligible children. He did this. It's all Peeta's fault. And now the one good thing he had in his life sees him for the monster that he is. 

He never should have opened his door to her that cold winter's night.

He wonders what this is punishment for. He doubts it has anything to do with Katniss's poaching. Is it because he missed his train? Or does Snow know about the bottle of poison in his coat? Will that be the price for Prim's life?

He needs sponsors. Lots of them. All of them if he has to. He begins tallying debts and building up a list of contacts. He can do this if he pushes aside all his silly distractions.

He rushes to find Katniss in the courthouse after the ceremony has ended.

"Katniss, wait," he shouts before she can reach the office that holds Prim.

"Don’t,” she says, backing away, alarm in her eye like an animal that’s been cornered.

"Katniss, Please.”

"No, get away. I can’t be near you right now. I can’t even look at you,” she says.

Peeta takes a deep breath and waits for the numbness to fill him. “Katniss, I’m sorry.”

"It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. You warned me this would happen, but I wouldn’t listen. Because I was desperate and lonely and selfish.” She clutches her chest and struggles for breaths between shuddering sobs. “I was supposed to protect her,” she says.

"Your sister will come home. I promise. I won't come back without her." He touches her arm, but pulls away painfully when she flinches. He deserves this, he reminds himself when he has the audacity to feel hurt. 

"I don't know what's going to happen," he says. "But I need you to be ready to run. Gather as many people as you can and run for the woods, I'll send a signal if I can. Trust me, please."

She holds his gaze, her chin trembling beneath the weight of her grief. The way she's looking at him feels worse than an enemy. She looks at him like he's nothing. He's nothing to her. "I should stay with her until it's time to leave," she says, and walks numbly towards the holding room.

......

Prim stirs her soup, but never brings the spoon to her lips. She pauses after a moment and looks at him. It's the moment that Peeta dreads every year. The moment when his doomed tribute debates whether they want to put any faith in him bringing them home.

The china rattles on thick, linen tablecloth. It's the only sound in the train car.

He holds his breath, jaw clenching.

"You and my sister," is all Prim says.

He looks away.

"Do you love her?"

He begins to shake his head but stops himself. There's no reason to hide it anymore. He's been exposed. He's run out of options. It's all over anyway. "Yes," he admits.

She nods a few times and resumes swirling her spoon. "Good," she says softly. "That's good." She takes a deep breath to calm the quivering in her voice. "You'll look after her then. She's always so busy looking after others that she never takes care of herself. I'm -- I'm glad she has you."

Peeta feels like he's going to vomit. He braces his hands on the edge of the table, gripping until his knuckles turn white. The only reason Prim is here, preparing for her death, is because of him.

The train begins to slow. They won't reach the Capitol until the morning, so this must be the stop to refuel.

"I'm sorry," Peeta says to excuse himself.

Haymitch is waiting for him outside the dining car and nods for him to follow.

The refueling depot is somewhere outside of District 10, where the land is incredibly flat, and the abandoned fields snap loudly against the breeze. They don't have to move far from the train before they know they can't be heard.

"So you had a plan?" Haymitch says.

Peeta laughs humorlessly. "You know I really don't have time for this," he snaps.

"You had a plan," Haymitch repeats.

Peeta drops his chin to his chest and scuffs the dirt with his shoe. "A stupid one."

Haymitch looks across the plain, smoothing down his wild hair as it picks up with the wind. "We have a few hovercraft, and a couple of land vehicles. We were planning to use them to mobilize against District 2 if they sided with the Capitol, but they've agreed to remain neutral -- or at least loyal to anyone who holds the City."

"You're going to take the Capitol?" Peeta concludes. "When?"

"You had a plan," Haymitch says pointedly.

Peeta looks back at the train, pats the vial hidden in his pocket. "Yes," he says.

* * *

"How does the crop look this year?" Dracaena says, sliding up beside him. She lifts the glass that's hooked around her pinkie finger to take a demur sip of neon liquid. "Anyone promising?"

Peeta takes a stiff breath. "What? You looking to invest?"

"I always like to keep my options open." She pauses to size him up. "Sweet little thing from your district this year. Don't often see pretty blondes come from those parts."

"I wouldn't get too excited," Peeta says, keeping his face impassive. "She'll be lucky to make the top twelve."

Prim scored a 7 thanks to her skills as a healer, but nobody would be foolish enough to bet on a girl whose best asset is keeping others alive. Peeta almost wishes that it could have been Katniss's name called, with her temper and fire, he wouldn't have worried about her coming out the other side.

"The boy, maybe," Peeta adds. "He's been working in the mines since he was a child, so he's good with a pickax. I think the audience will like that."  


She nods a few times, her eyes scanning the room full of investors as they sip on cocktails and talk strategy with the mentors in attendance.

"I heard there may not even be a Games," she says. "Not in the arena, at least."

His mouth quirks. "Does word travel that fast?"

"It does when the President's closest advisers are colluding with rebel spies."

"They are?" Peeta says, feigning shock.

"At least that's the word around their mistresses. Pillow talk and politics are always such a dangerous thing." She drains her drink and smiles at him slyly. "Do you have any proof?"

"Do I really need any? With the growing shortages on goods, the old man must be paranoid by now."

She considers it. "Snow will have their heads for this. He'll want to make a very public example of them."

"A toast, perhaps?" he says, slipping the capsule of black liquid from his pocket.

Dracaena's eyes go wide, and her fingers tremble as she takes it from him. She holds the tiny bottle against her heart letting it linger there for only a second before she tucks it beneath her breast.

"They're sending forces to the President's Mansion when the Games launch tomorrow, while the city is caught up in celebrations and too distracted for an assault. Make sure he knows that."

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Just make sure he knows," he repeats.

She places a hand on his cheek and kisses the corner of his mouth. When she pulls away she touches three fingers against his lips.

"We can be happy, right?" she says. "We won't always be these pathetic broken things."

When he closes his eyes he sees Katniss's face, but quickly blinks her image away.

"You'll be all right," he says.

"There's only one way to find out." She nods at an adviser as he passes. "You'll be there tomorrow, right? You know how the purse strings are always looser at these types of events."

He glances over his shoulder and then back at her. "No. I'll be in the control room this year."

"Isn't that what Haymitch is usually for?"

"We're trying a new strategy this year."

She eyes him skeptically. "Well good luck, Peeta Mellark. I'm betting on you."

"And I you."

* * *

The location of the arena is always kept under wraps with only the head Game Maker and his team of builders aware of the true location. Of course, the builders are transported there, so they hardly know where they're actually going, only the pilot does, and he isn't talking.

There are other options, of course. Peeta could stow away on Prim's hovercraft, for example, but riding along with her isn't going to do him much good in trying to rescue her unless he can overtake the entire crew and pilot them to safety, and he doubts his ability to accomplish even one of these things let alone all of them. 

But if he had a tracker, then he could have the hovercraft followed. There's the risk, though, of a tracker being discovered, or simply falling off. But if he can make Prim into his tracker...

He turns her arm over, hesitating as he tries to remember which arm to use. He rolls up his sleeve and locates the small ridge on his inner arm where his own is still placed. He reaches for her opposite arm and injects the serum carrying the tiny homing beacon.

"What's that?" Prim says, flinching when he pushes down on the plunger.

"A nutrient booster," he lies coolly. "It may be a while until you find food and water." She nods bravely. "And this is your token," he says, pulling a golden dandelion broach from his pocket. He's worked on it tirelessly with Cinna ever since they hatched this plan. 

"I know you're stylist is supposed to give it to you, but I wasn't able to get it to Cinna in time. Sorry it isn't edible." She almost cracks a smile. "Remember to get away from the fight. Find someplace safe and stay there."

"Katniss says I should stay in a tree."

"Yes, do that if they have them. And get everything you need done during the day. Fire attracts predators. You know what's safe to eat, you'll get by." She nods again. "It won't be long, I promise. Just stay hidden for as long as you can."

When her hovercraft pulls away, he activates the tracking receiver, breathing out a sigh of relief when a signal begins to flash on his holomap.

Peeta hurries back to his quarters and rifles through the closet until he finds the disguise that Cinna has hidden inside. Part of the intrigue that comes with the Games is how quaint and plain the tributes look. The more extravagant one looks in the city, the more invisible they become.

He tangles himself in drapes of fabric and piles on pounds of jewelry before painting his face until he's nearly unrecognizable. Then he heads to the station at the center of the Capitol and boards a train for District Three.

It's the closest allied district to the Capitol and where they have two hovercrafts fueled and ready to locate the arena. Peeta checks the holomap again to make sure the tracking signal is still flashing brightly.

Finnick is waiting for him when he arrives. "About time you showed up," he says wryly. "Any idea where we're heading?"

Peeta inspects the layout of the map. The arenas are always placed in the No Man's Land between districts, so there are few landmarks to use for positioning. Prim's tracking dot is on a charted part of the map though, the ruins of District 13.

"How poetic," Finnick says. "Come on boys, ready to end the dark days in the place they began?"

District Thirteen is on the other side of Panem and even with a hovercraft, it will take hours to reach. One of the guys is watching pregame footage hosted by Caesar Flickerman on a handheld holo, in the corner a clock count downs to the start of the Games. They're running out of time.

He watches impatiently as Haymitch fumbles through the interview that Peeta usually gives from the President's Banquet. In the background he can make out bottles of champagne being poured onto trays. He wonders which one will hold the lethal dose.

There are less than ten minutes until the start of the Games when the dome of the arena comes into view. Most of the crew members are former victors and a hush settles over the entire cabin at the sight.

"We'll have to deactivate the force field from the ground," Beetee Latier, a victor from District Three says. He looks at Peeta, "Give me your holomap." Peeta complies and Beetee begins punching in different settings. Tracking lights appear and disappear as he adjusts the scan. 

"What's that?" Peeta asks curiously when Beetee seems to have finished his adjustments.

"The base station," Beetee says. "It's the satellite comm link between the Game Makers in the Capitol so they can control the arena. Once we break the connection, we'll have 90 seconds before the system goes into lock down."

"90 seconds? That's not a lot of time," Peeta says. "What happens in lock down?"

"I don't know," Beetee says. "My guess would be self detonation..."

"The entire arena will blow?"

"Most likely," he says. His eyes narrow and then his eyebrow quirks. "Unless..." he shakes his head and is silent for another excruciating moment. "If I can extract the status messages, we can spoof the host using a low power transmission from the hovercraft. The severed cable from the satellite should have enough sensitivity to receive it."

"How long will that take?"

"Assuming there's no encryption? A few minutes to distinguish the protocol and implement a loop before we cut the data link."

"And if there's encryption?"

"We'll cross that hurdle when we get to it."

"There's still five minutes until the launch," Peeta says, glancing back at the holo playing footage from the Capitol. "We might be able to get to them before the pods deploy.

As they make their approach to the landing pad, the rescue team changes into Peacekeeper uniforms smuggled from District Eight. Peeta remembers during his Games that the perimeter of the arena was practically swarming with guards, but this year there are only two posted at each entrance. The president must have kept most of his forces in the Capitol to defend the mansion, he thinks, feeling pleased with himself.

Beetee and a few of the District Three volunteers head toward the base station under the guise of site maintenance, another team sabotages the Capitol held hovercraft, while the remaining members act as security to aide in launch supervision, and are eagerly welcomed by the already dwindled forces.

The winding corridors are lined with monitors displaying control room footage, and Peeta watches as the stylists put on the final touches before guiding the tributes to their launch tube. Peeta engages the silencer on his rifle, and carefully lines up his shot of the guard posted outside one of the caverns so that he will fall outside of the security frame.

When the monitors cycle through to the Capitol feed, there's no service. Beetee has overridden the system. Peeta rushes down the corridor, stopping short when he stumbles across Prim's chamber. He bangs on the door but the locks are all jammed. Prim is on her platform and it's beginning to lift.

"Stay on the platform!" Peeta shouts against the glass. "Don't leave your platform!"

"Peeta?" Prim makes out before she's pushed above the Earth.

Peeta continues to punch the scanner outside her door, fighting to get it open while Cinna does the same on the other side. The countdown clock starts from 60 and works it's way down, second by second.

Suddenly the door slides open, and Prim's platform returns with her still clinging desperately to the surface.

* * *

District Twelve is the closest district and Peeta is more than relieved when it's selected as the rendezvous point to regroup. As they make their approach, Peeta notices plumes of smoke bellowing above the treeline. The old warehouse that once held the Hob is on fire. There are riots in the town square that Peacekeepers are struggling to contain. It looks like pure chaos on the ground below. 

Peeta directs the pilot to land in the valley just beyond the fence where he and Katniss used to escape. As the hovercraft touches down and the doors open, he can see faces staring back at him within the trees. Hundreds of people begin to step forward, close to a thousand.

"Prim? Prim!" he hears Katniss shout as she breaks through the crowd and embraces her sister. 

His heartbeat quickens when her eyes immediately search for his.

"The president's dead," she says. 

He nods. "You ran," he says.

"I saw the flower."

* * *

He wakes with a start. The sheets around him are cold and damp from the perspiration that still clings to his temples. He feels a warm hand smooth over his back.

"Shh," she says soothingly. "It's just a nightmare."

His eyes close and he hopes he can hold onto this dream a little longer. "Katniss?" he says.

"What's wrong?"

His eyelids tighten then release, he roles over and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to dim light. "I still can't believe you're here."

She smiles at him as she flattens his mused hair behind his ear. "You're okay," she says. "We're okay."

He still doesn't believe that it happened. That the remaining rebel forces were able to move in on the president's mansion after the assassination of Snow and his top advisers, and without clear leadership to direct defenses, the Capitol was easily taken by District Representatives. 

Peeta had declined the role for District 12 when he was selected for the position. He'd never step foot in the Capitol again if he had his way. Gale Hawthorne sits there now instead.

"I can't believe my sister is getting married today," Katniss says, drawing the sheets tightly around her neck. "Could you make her a cake? Like the ones you used to put in the bakery window. She always liked those."

"Of course," he says. "Although those took hours to decorate. I'm not sure how spectacular I can make it before this afternoon."

She bites her lip. "I didn't think of that. It's fine, really, you've already done enough."

He smiles lazily at her. "I haven't done anything," he says dryly.

"You brought her home," she replies. She rolls onto her back. "It's weird. I've always been so detached from the future. Why look forward to tomorrow when there will only be another reaping or another mine could collapse. And, yeah, something terrible may still happen tomorrow, but maybe today, it's still worth the risk."

"I suppose so."

"And I know I've told you that I never wanted anything serious, and I'm still not entirely sure if I do. I just know that I would miss you if you weren't here. With me."

"Yeah, me too."

"You know what I mean though, right? We're free."

He takes her hand and presses her fingers against his lips. "I'm yours," he says.

"And I'm yours."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at absnow


End file.
